


Wait for It

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 15, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Cas knitting and gardening, Case Fic, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Castiel to the Rescue (Supernatural), Fatback, First Kiss, Fix-It, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Referenced Switching, Rufus Turner's Cabin, Second Chances, Serious Injuries, Stubborn Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: With Chuck out of the picture and Jack stepping up as the New God, Team Free Will suddenly has to face the most difficult mission they've ever tackled: moving on. Change is tough, that's a given. What's not new? Dean's coping mechanisms being the absolute worst. Problem is, this time, his stubborn refusal to leave the past where it belongs lands him in hot water that's so deep, even Castiel may not be able to pull him out in time.An epic post-canon love story about a hunter who can't seem to look forward and an ex-angel who is done looking back.
Relationships: (background), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 422
Kudos: 501
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection, The Fatback Multiverse Collection





	1. Legacy to Protect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyRandomBox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRandomBox/gifts).



> Helloooo and welcome to another WIP ;) Yes, I did rip the title from Hamilton, #sorrynotsorry. This fic is actually COMPLETE and will be serially posted regularly. You do not need to worry about it being abandoned! This can also be read as Teen. There are references to them hooking up (and there is an explicit graphic in *this* chapter), but the main smut scene at the end will be marked and skippable.
> 
> Our story picks up somewhere mid-season 15, quickly wraps the canon storyline and shifts into post-canon coping (or lack thereof). This is 100% a *FIX-IT FIC*. There is minor angst, of course, and there is some injury/threat of imminent death as Dean is captured and fed on by vampires, but a very happy resolution that all the boys deserve awaits them at the end. :) 
> 
> The plot bunny comes to you courtesy of the lovely Lindsay, aka [LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox), who won my third FicFacers story! In a twist, I also won her auction, but then gave it away to a friend for Reasons. Lindsay, being the wonderful human she is, decided to make art for this story anyway. Which you should all follow and thank her for, because it's amazing. 
> 
> *cough* related, there is an explicit image somewhere in the middle of this chapter, so please be aware of that if you are reading in public or on the train or, idk, in a work meeting.
> 
> As always, thank you to [Coinofstone](https://twitter.com/coinofstone) for the editing. <3
> 
> **FicFacers Disclaimer: This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.**

_Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints,_

_it takes and it takes and it takes._

_And we keep living anyway,_

_We rise and we fall and we break, and we make our mistakes._

_And if there's a reason I'm still alive,_

_when everyone who loves me has died,_

_I'm willing to wait for it._

_There’s no place like home._

Not a sentiment Dean is ever gonna argue, especially considering how long he went without having a place he could reasonably label such a thing. Before the Bunker, the closest thing he and Sam had to _home_ was the Impala, and no offense to Baby, but her backseat can’t exactly compete with memory foam. Or, hell, a full-sized industrial kitchen where Dean can cook his heart out and the goddamn Dean Cave—his own personal slice of Heaven (better than, really—fuck the real version). 

Prior to the last six months, Dean would have easily said he’d never tire of the Bunker. That being _home_ would never get old or make him frustrated, because being _home_ just wasn’t a luxury he and Sam had ever had. Even over the last however many years with the Bunker filling that role, they never, ever got to fully _enjoy_ it. Always worried about what was on the horizon—the next case, the next Bigger Bad, the next apocalypse now-ish. 

If you’d asked Dean six months ago whether he’d ever get sick of the Bunker, he would have laughed and told you that he doubted he’d live long enough to _get_ bored, here. And he believed that, he really did. Dean thinks Sam did, too. Especially when that “next Big Bad” ended up being God himself, because who in their right mind would _really_ expect to come out of a boss battle with the Almighty alive and (relatively—therapy is a thing Dean probably needs) unscathed?

Who would have thought that this warped fight-die-deal rinse and repeat cycle they were caught up in would _ever_ be over for real? 

Fifteen years (not counting the forty he spent in Hell) of Dean’s adult life, and he _never_ in a million more thought he’d actually get to retire. Going out in a rain of fire and bullets? Solid possibility. Monster finally lands a lucky hit? Almost inevitable. Hell, Dean figured his goddamn spine would crumble and disintegrate into nothing or the constant whacks to the head would lead to one final, fatal brain bleed before he’d _ever_ be packing up his hunting gear and calling it a day.

But somehow, against all odds, here they are.

It’s not just Dean trying to figure out “what’s next?”, but it’s Sam and Cas, too. Really, with Rowena running Hell and Jack captaining the ship up in Heaven, it’s kind of hard to argue that everyone didn’t get the happy ending they wanted and dreamed about. That “toes in the sand” final scene none of them, in the harsh light of day, thought could be possible. 

_All_ of them, free.

Well, not Chuck or Amara—those fuckers are gone. But beggars can’t be choosers, plus, betterment of the universe and all that. Doesn’t matter—the duo problem-child deities are out of Dean’s hair for good, and Free Will is the only thing that reins in their place. Well, and Jack, but that barely counts. The kid does good, but at the end of the day, he’s a glorified angel-making battery, keeping Heaven’s lights on and making sure no opportunistic leech makes a play for the Throne. 

Alright, that’s not entirely fair—Jack’s kicking ass and taking names upstairs and Dean—well, Dean _mostly_ forgives him. Doesn’t hurt that Jack checks in on John and Mary, makes sure they’re living the good life in their shared Heaven, but no one’s ever accused Dean of being easygoing with his grudges. Still, as long as Free Will is Jack’s modus operandi (on Earth as it is in Heaven, or Cas will kick his ass), Dean supposes he’s gotta cut his losses and be glad they walked away on top. 

Cas had a harder time coping with Jack’s choice to remain in Heaven—especially now that he’s mojo-free and can’t pop in for a fatherly visit whenever he wants. Jack can leave for short periods of time, though, so he _is_ just a hop, skip, and a prayer away, but Cas is trying this whole thing where he’s letting Jack come into his own _on_ his own. Plus, up there Jack has Kelly, and she deserves the chance to be the parent-figure in Jack’s life, for once, however late to the party she may be. 

Honestly, Cas being permanently powered-down and freed from his Heavenly duties was maybe the most mind-blowing change that came out of all this, _defeating God_ included. Cas is just goddamn lucky his little grace-sacrifice and subsequent vacation to the Empty did what it was supposed to do, eliminating Chuck and Amara like he’d hoped. 

He was _luckier_ that the Empty was appreciative enough of him doing so to call square on that _stupid_ deal Cas made, and that Jack hauled him back out of there before Dean had the chance to enlist Billie to throw _him_ into the Empty like she’s always wanted. Maybe neither him nor Cas would have made it back out alive if he had, but Dean thinks it would’ve been worth it just to get one good punch to that lying, self-sacrificing son-of-a-bitch’s face. 

Luckily for Cas’ devilishly handsome cheekbones and Dean’s future, that didn’t happen. 

No, what happened after Cas died and God and Amara went poof was something Dean had refused to even consider as a possibility for almost the entire time he's known Castiel. Refused to _hope_ for, knowing that his destiny was way more Butch and Sundance, _maybe_ Thelma and Louise if he was lucky, but definitely not any of that “happily ever after” (or even “one second of peace”) bullshit. 

Plus, _Castiel, Angel of the fucking Lord—_ whatever Dean might have felt, whatever he might have been unable to fully quash and bury under a pile of self-hate and inadequacy in the back of his mind—was _never_ in his reach.

Except, suddenly he was. 

Suddenly, _everything_ was. 

Dean remembers that moment in dazzling technicolor, surround-sound and burning detail, clear as if it had happened only seconds prior. He thinks he probably always will, for however long he might live (and bizarrely, it kinda feels like that might be a long time, these days). 

The showdown with Chuck ended almost anticlimactically, thanks to Cas. With the chaos siblings neutralized, Jack up in Heaven, and Cas presumably dead, Dean was left alone with Sam. Left to slide behind the wheel of Baby and drive back to the Bunker like life was just supposed to keep trudging on. Like he wasn’t breathless with exhaustion, sorrow, and fear. 

But he was also full of blinding fury, and thank fuck for that, because without the rage clouding his mind, he might not have made it back to the Bunker before trying something incredibly stupid.

Looking back now, Dean couldn’t even say how he made that cursed drive without wrapping them all around a tree (accidentally or on purpose, it’s anyone’s guess), except that he was hyper-focused on sorting out how to contact Billie and finagle a round-trip ticket to the Empty and back without Sam getting wise to his scheme. 

However it happened, and maybe Jack helped a little from out of sight, they made it home. 

Baby’s wheels rolled up that frontage road, the same one Dean’s driven down hundreds of times, tires crunching over gravel in a painfully nostalgic way. The familiar sight of the Bunker’s exterior doors came into focus, rising from the brush in what should have felt like a benediction. That day, it didn’t feel like coming home, though. It felt like they’d _lost,_ like _Dean_ had lost, despite the fact that they’d just saved the world—again, and presumably, for the final time. 

This was the biggest win they’d ever achieved, and Dean couldn’t even bring himself to feel _glad_ about it. Part of him wished that Chuck had just snapped his fingers and taken him out when he had the chance. An even bigger part wondered why he hadn’t. 

But Chuck was gone and Dean was still here, and he wasn’t about to take losing the only thing that still mattered— _his fucking_ family _, the only family he’s got left besides Sam—_ lying down. 

Also, there was that whole, punching the idiot in the face thing—yeah, if anyone asked, that would be Dean’s excuse for taking on the Empty, for sure.

When he shifted Baby into park on the side of the road in front of the Bunker, Dean just felt weary. He felt _old,_ like his age was finally catching up to him in a big way. He felt _tired._ With that in mind, it wasn’t hard to imagine risking the rest of his life and his immortal soul for what he wanted to do next. Slumping in the driver’s seat of his car right then, Dean could barely contemplate getting up in the morning and facing even one more day, never mind an unknown number of long, empty years ahead.

 _So_ many times he and Sam had returned to this place, their haven and their refuge, beat up and defeated and _lost_ , just like they were at that moment. But it had never felt _quite_ so pointless or conflicting before. Maybe Dean’s willingness to potentially throw his life away was born from a need to keep that “what comes next?” theme of their lives rolling on. Or to just _end it, finally,_ pull the fucking trigger and put him _out_ of his damn misery _._ He certainly wasn’t going to sit around, moping uselessly over Cas in his dead-guy robe while bottles accumulated around him like the last time the guy died. 

Back when they were gearing up to face Chuck, Dean never, not for _one_ second, contemplated that the Almighty’s defeat would _truly_ amount to The End. No more “what comes next?”, no more Boss Battles, just Dean, Sam, and an empty bunker full of memories and regret. He never remotely considered that things could be tied up in a neat little bow they had been, leaving Dean to deal with _that_ and how life would just meander forward uncaringly, instead. 

So big, heroic, dumbass gesture-time it was. 

Or, it would have been, except that Dean _also_ wasn’t prepared for Jack to give a shit. It never even occurred to him that the kid might intervene, might fix this whole problem before Dean could so much as say, “Let’s make a deal.” Which, alright—that was kind of crappy of him, Dean knows it. Jack is family, he’s all of their kid, but he’s also done a lot of damage. Dean is not a perfect man, and he’s pretty sure no one can blame him for not automatically assuming Jack would put them and Cas first.

Regardless of Dean’s lack of faith, Jack came through in the clutch. He’s like his dad that way.

When Dean and Sam trekked down the steps into the Bunker, blood still not-quite congealed over the various cuts and scrapes they’d sustained in the final fight, Dean’s one-track-mind didn’t quite know what to do with what was there waiting for them. He was resolved, he was ready, he had Billie’s phone number on speed dial and then—

There they were. Jack, and more importantly, Cas. Walking side-by-side into the middle of the Map Room like it was any old day at the Bunker and Sam and Dean were just late for dinner.

_Cas._

A devastatingly handsome, devastatingly _alive,_ and devastatingly _human_ Cas. 

How Dean knew that Castiel was human, in retrospect, he couldn’t say. Besides the fact that Cas’ grace was gone— _sacrificed—_ no one had bothered asking whether that was something Jack could rectify. Apparently not, but also, not the point. He was different, changed.

There was something _softer,_ easier about Cas, like he’d settled into his skin in a way he never quite had before, back when it was just Jimmy’s borrowed shape. Dean just—he _knew,_ he just knew, the way he knew Castiel wanted nothing more than for Dean to step forward, wrap him up in his arms, and welcome him home.

Dean couldn’t lie—at least not to himself—there was a tense moment in the War Room (maybe just the Map Room now?) as they all sized each other up and Dean and Sam finished descending the stairs in confused disbelief. Unapologetically, Dean did think for a second about following through with his determined plan to punch Cas in his face. 

As he and Cas made eye contact, nobody spoke, the other two seemingly giving them space to decide how to proceed. After all, they hadn’t left off on the best of terms—Dean furious and Castiel unapologetic about his choices, but extremely sorry for the way he hurt Dean. A classic chick-flick moment if Dean’s ever seen one, but without the sappy, happy ending. In their unexpected reunion, Dean could only find the strength to stand there like the heartsick idiot he was, blood and dirt painting his face and a ratty duffle slung over his shoulder. 

Sam, for his part, was busy darting glances between everyone like he wasn’t sure whether to shove Dean and Cas together or step heroically in between them. 

It was just too much. Jack looking so goddamn proud of himself—big, pleased smile pasted across his baby face and totally missing the boat that this reunion was _complicated_ and fucked up on so many levels. And Cas— _fucking Cas,_ and his puppy dog eyes pleading with Dean to forgive him. Knowing full well that words wouldn’t do jack shit because Dean _already fuckin’ told him_ that he’s the thing that always goes wrong.

They’ve _done_ this goddamn rodeo, Dean’s apologized for being an asshole, and they moved on, only to circle right back to the _same bullshit_ with the same shitty outcome. Only this time, Dean was too goddamn _tired_ to lash out and get angry, didn’t _want_ to treat Cas like that anyway, not when he was faced with the reality of it. Just having Cas back was—it was too much, in and of itself, and Dean had no idea how to cope. 

There’s also the fact that Dean _knew_ it wasn’t fair to say those things, no matter how angry he was at Cas _leaving him again._ This time, Cas’ infuriating deal and his subsequent sacrifice was the thing that bought all of them—and the world—their permanent vacation and their freedom. It was no more or less than Dean himself would have done in Cas’ position, what he was _willing_ to do in his place. Begrudgingly, Dean had to admit that holding Cas’ dumb choices over his head, rubbing them in his face and in general, _hurting him_ after he played the actual hero was over the line. 

Besides, here Cas fuckin’ was, no harm done.

In the end, Sam didn’t have to do anything. 

The tense atmosphere broke as Dean exhaled. With a nod, he grunted a stilted, “Welcome back, pal,” just like he always did, hated himself for it, and stalked off towards his bedroom.

As he walked away, Dean could hear Sam reassuring Jack that he didn’t do anything wrong behind his back. Couldn’t hear but could almost _feel_ Cas’ sadness, his disappointment at Dean’s nonstarter reaction. 

_Whatever,_ Dean thought. Cas should be used to Dean letting him down by now. Just because the world didn’t end and they had their whole lives in front of them now didn’t _change_ who Dean was, who he’s always been. He would have easily spent the remainder of his years pretending he wasn’t pining away for Cas like the lead in a crappy romance novel, if it meant not having to fuckin’ talk about it or risk the rejection.

Cas, apparently, was done capitulating to Dean’s bullshit, though.

Whether it was dying and coming back for the very last time, losing his grace, finally kicking those daddy issues, or something else altogether, Dean never did figure it out. It didn’t matter. Whatever wild hair wormed its way up Cas’ ass, it changed everything. 

To be fair, Dean’s never felt _good_ about walking away from Cas, but Cas is just the latest in a long line of people he could never bring himself to be honest with. Not when it meant putting those people in danger, not when it meant _knowing_ Dean had nothing to offer them but pain and loss, blood and violence and grief, the things that have followed him to Hell and back like an unrelenting plague.

And sure, maybe a lot of that (maybe all of it) was Chuck’s fault, but just because that dick was gone, didn’t mean Dean suddenly believed he was really free. That’s a _lot_ of years of crap needing to be unpacked, a lot of deeply carved self-loathing to deprogram. 

Right at that moment, walking down those familiar halls, all Dean wanted was to kick off his dirty boots and _sleep,_ for like a week. If that meant missing his window with Cas for the umpteenth time, well, maybe Dean wasn’t goddamn ready to tear his own protective walls down just yet. 

Because of that inferiority complex, that lack of confidence in his own self-worth, Dean _never_ expected what came next. He always thought, if he _wanted_ to cross that line with Castiel, it would come down to him. Always assumed that if he just shut down and toed the line, Cas would take it without complaint. That Cas would remain a steady (if somewhat annoyed), ultra-important but strictly platonic presence in his life. 

Cas got to him before he could so much as turn the handle on Room Eleven. He grabbed Dean’s sleeve, yanked him around and had the nerve to _still_ be sporting that kicked-dog expression when he did. Expression didn’t match the attitude, though, and Dean would blame that later for the way he went along with it—at first, anyway. 

All up in his space, Cas knocked the duffle right off of Dean’s shoulder. It fell to the floor with a dull, echoing thud as Castiel crowded Dean next to his door, boxing him in with one arm against the wall up by his head. The sheer aggressiveness of the gesture took Dean by surprise—usually when he and Cas were this close, one of them was furious at the other. 

Not for nothing, but Cas _looked_ kinda angry, so at first, Dean wasn’t even sure of how to respond. He thought about shoving Cas away, he really did—especially if he was reading the situation correctly and Cas wasn’t angry at all, just determined, which was way more terrifying. 

But Cas’ fingers were gentle and warm on his second-day stubble (no time to shave when you're saving the world). The morning Cas died, Dean’s face was smooth, but he’s been functioning on nothing but rage and the fierce desire to make it all _mean something_ ever since. As soon as the whole mess was over, he’d deflated like a goddamn balloon, only to fill himself back up with hot air and idiotic plans to sacrifice himself just to give Cas the what-for.

As if Cas could read all that on his face, he smiled a little, hot breath ghosting over Dean’s lips. They’ve been close like this exactly twice in the time Dean’s known the guy, and while both other instances were equally charged, neither were sexy. 

Alright, maybe they were a _little_ sexy, if Dean’s being completely honest.

But this was different. Dean could read the intention on Cas’ face. Could see that there was no way he was getting out of this without a fight or a _talk,_ both of which sounded like the exact opposite of anything he wanted to do in that moment. 

And yet, Cas didn’t say a goddamn thing. Just kept their bodies pressed together like fuckin’ Sam couldn’t stroll down the hallway at any minute, like _Jack_ wasn’t basically an omnipotent being that was probably peeping on them through the wall out of pure curiosity, fuck Dean’s life. 

The tips of Cas’ fingers on Dean’s skin flowed electricity between them, tiny currents Dean was _sure_ he wasn’t the only one feeling. In front of him, Castiel just stared back thoughtfully, contemplating the angles of Dean’s face, the curve of his mouth. He smirked at the hitch of Dean’s breath in his chest when he pressed a thumb and forefinger near-bruisingly on either side of Dean’s chin. _Totally_ unnecessary and super hot, not that Dean was about to admit it.

“Cas,” Dean said, by some miracle keeping his voice from cracking. “What—”

“Shut up, Dean.” Castiel had cut him off quickly, not compromising or moving an inch. He wasn’t afraid, wasn’t unsure. Human Cas was no less intimidating than the angel variety, of that much Dean was _very_ certain. 

By that point, Dean knew what was coming and still didn’t take any steps to extricate himself. Despite all of his fears, doubts, and reservations, Dean just didn’t have the energy to keep running. 

Cas’ mouth on his was everything Dean always dreamed it would be. Soft and sweet but possessive at the same time, and Cas himself was like a floodgate bursting at poorly-sealed seams. Dean didn’t know whether angels felt desire and love the way humans did, but it almost seemed like whatever Cas felt _before_ had now exploded and amplified in a way that he couldn’t contain inside his mortal vessel, even if he tried. 

For all of his careful avoidance, his _years_ of stonewalling his own emotions, sure that this was something he’d not only never get to have but that he didn’t _deserve,_ Dean turned out to be easy as fuck to win over, in the end.

With that first kiss and some careful, gentle touches, Cas wasn’t the only one whose dam broke hard and fast, leaving everything inside of him to spill out unrestrained and unprotected. As Castiel’s fingers curled around the back of his head, as Dean allowed himself to melt, to open his mouth and meet Cas halfway, he realized something. 

He wasn’t tired with the need for sleep, he was just _tired._

Tired of pretending, tired of fighting, tired of being alone. Tired of having only Sam to lean on, of losing everyone he cared about over and over, of winning one battle only to be reminded that he could never hope to win the war. Of lying, to himself about what he wanted, to the world about the kind of man he was and the kind he wanted to be. Dean had lied so goddamn much at that point, it felt almost impossible to sort out what _was_ true, even in his own head. 

Except when it came to Cas. 

Cas kissed him, and everything instantly became that much clearer.

Just like that, Dean wasn’t alone. Just like that, _Cas_ was no longer a problem he had to avoid addressing, he was Dean’s _someone._ He was the warm body in Dean’s bed at night, he was morning coffee kisses in the Bunker’s kitchen. He was in Dean’s clothes and by his side on grocery store runs, wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulders on movie night and draining his body wash in half the usual time. 

Speaking of time, it probably took Dean more of it to adjust to a _human_ Cas than a Cas who was in love with him and interested in fucking him until he screamed. Weirdly, kisses and touching and sex didn’t feel like _that_ strange of an addition to his and Cas’ already intense relationship. Kissing Cas whenever he wanted just meant _not_ suppressing the urge to do so, but setting three places at the table at dinnertime, for whatever reason, threw Dean for a loop. 

There were so many things Dean took for granted that Cas just didn’t do, it was hard to change his perspective, hard to remember that Cas was never going back to the way he was. Finding Cas brushing his teeth or having to pull the car over on a long ride so that the former angel could piss. The first time Cas cut his finger on a kitchen knife or the week he fought off a cold— _those_ things were just goddamn strange. 

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Dean still half-expected the guy to spontaneously heal, to round the corner of the library in his old trenchcoat and suit getup, angel blade in hand, eyes glowing—the whole shebang. No matter how many meals they shared together, Dean never really stopped being surprised that Cas wanted to _eat._

On the other hand, the plus side of never having been _together_ while Cas was an angel was that Dean had none of the same parameters (or any baseline at all) to compare _those_ aspects of their new life to. In that sense, Cas sleeping? Weird. Cas sleeping next to him in what quickly (and without discussion) became their shared bed? Fuckin’ _bliss._ Cas showering? Weird. Cas yanking _Dean_ into the shower to soap him up and jerk him off with slick hands? ‘Nough said.

But after all the waiting and all the build-up, Dean was mostly shocked to find out that the transition into being _Dean and Castiel_ the unit wasn’t very much of a change at all. They still (more or less) went about their old routines, still hung out like they always have, still cooked and cleaned and did laundry—normal, boring, routine shit. 

So there they all were, Dean and Cas and Sam. Rolling around the Bunker every day with nothing to do like goddamn _Three’s Company_ (if Mr. Roper was a half-angel kid and “upstairs” were a lot more figurative). 

Sam certainly didn’t care about Dean and Cas’ status change, other than the time he walked in on the two of them messing around on the map table. Even Dean could understand Sam’s ire with that (not that he had any regrets). From there on out, a few “house rules” were laid down and Sam never said another thing about it. 

Privately, Dean suspected that was equal parts because Sam was as lost in this “end of the line, nothing to do,” situation as he was, and also because he was still hoping to talk Eileen into coming back to the Bunker. Dean felt for him, it sucked being the third wheel, especially when you had someone you wished would show up and be the fourth. He would damn well know.

On the flip side, Eileen being out in the world was how Team Free Will 3.0: The Domestic Years realized that Chuck being gone didn’t automatically translate to their hunting gig being up. In that respect, Dean supposed Eileen’s reluctance to return wasn’t all bad, though he wished Sam could get a slice of this domestic bliss, too. Either way, when Eileen called to ask for some help on a routine hunt, that’s when everything started going topside down.

Until that point, Dean had been fairly happy with their situation, settled, even. Thinking about what might come _next,_ something he’s _never_ done in his life, save for that very short failed experiment with Lisa way back when. Maybe he’d get a job in town, bartending. Maybe he’d see if any of the garages were hiring, put his mechanic skills to some use. Sam, it was pretty clear, wasn’t long for the Bunker. The guy never wanted this life to begin with, an out wasn’t something he was going to pass up.

They would have been well within reason _to_ grab that pass and run with it, too. Plenty of other hunters existed, and none of the cases turning up were shit Joe Schmoe with some salt and a little lighter fluid couldn’t probably handle. Hell, most of it was so juvenile it barely called for a real hunter at all, never mind a Winchester. 

So Dean shouldn’t have been surprised when Sam went to meet Eileen and came home only to leave again. Apparently, Eileen _did_ want to work things out, just not in the Bunker. She and Sam had hunted, burned a body, and re-bonded over the smoking embers of its bones about how neither of them wanted to be doing that very thing anymore at all. 

Somehow, that conversation evolved swiftly into a full-fledged relationship that included cohabitating somewhere Dean definitely wasn’t. Not that Sam put it that way, but the outcome was the same. Within days of returning from their hunt, Sam had packed up one of the more stable cars in the motor pool and was on his way to California. Eileen was already there, had rented some place near the beach from another hunter, a dude who was a lot better than Dean and Sam had ever been at making quick cash and turning it into a huge profit. 

To his credit, Sam did ask Dean to come with them. Cas too, of course. Whatever dude Eileen was renting from supposedly had a bunch more properties that they were welcome to, but Dean turned him down outright. It was enough of a blow to know Sam wanted out for good—Dean still had to cope with the fact that the hunting world still had a use for him. Still had to decide whether he was ready to say goodbye to the Bunker for good.

He wasn’t, and he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Sam either, but he didn’t need to burden Sam with that bullshit.

The way Sam explained it, Dean couldn’t bring himself to rain on the kid’s parade. Sam was so damn excited, and it had been _years_ since Dean had seen that spark, that kind of enthusiasm for life in his little brother’s eyes. Out in California, Sam could finally seize the chance to go to Law School, and Eileen could do…well, honestly, Dean forgot to ask what Eileen was doing, but Sam assured him she was happy. 

_Sure,_ Sam assured Dean, the two of them would take care of a lowkey hunt if one came across their desks, but hunting in general just wasn’t the life either of them wanted anymore.

And just like that, Sam was gone, and Dean and Cas were alone. 

It was around that time Dean started getting... _jittery_. 

Once Sam left, he and Cas picked up a few hunts here and there, but Cas’ heart just wasn’t in them. Unfortunately for Dean, it showed. Cas was a less than enthusiastic partner, and he made a lot of rookie mistakes. Not a surprise, considering Cas had always had his grace to bring to a fight, but not helpful, either. 

The outcome was Dean spending more time worrying about the guy’s newly-fragile body being beaten to shit without his angel-mojo backing his plays than doing any actual hunting. Besides the dirty motel sex (which definitely did not suck), Cas making him coffee in the mornings, and the adrenaline-fueled post-hunt make-out sessions, Dean wasn’t overly enthused by their adventures, either. 

Plus, Cas was happy back at the Bunker, he _was._ He liked his human routines, liked poking around for hours in the garden he was cultivating outside, despite being late to the planting season. The last time Cas was human didn’t go so great (partly Dean’s fault, he’ll probably never not feel guilty about that), and Cas seemed to be approaching this round like a real, honest-to-goodness second chance. Everything he did, he did with full energy, passion, and appreciation, whether it was watching Netflix, working out, or teaching himself various human hobbies. 

Except when it came to hunting. The lack of that same zest for life that Cas brought to everything else only made it all the more obvious that Dean needed to let him off the hook.

While he definitely didn’t need another sloppily knitted sweater with matching beanie, Dean thought letting Cas do what made him happy was pretty clearly the right way to go about this. Dragging the guy around on hunts he didn’t enjoy just because _Dean_ wasn’t ready to let go? Not cool. 

And if that prevented Dean from ever needing to have the conversation about maybe not being entirely ready to settle, about _maybe_ having some second thoughts about this whole domestic life altogether—well, that was better than therapy, in Dean’s opinion. Two birds, one stone. 

So that’s what he’s been doing, up to this point. Setting Cas up with a new series to binge watch and then taking off for a few days to chase down whatever ghost or werewolf or ghoul is scaring up small-town America. It’s not the smartest idea to hunt alone, but it’s not the first time Dean’s done it, either. On the one hand, he’s no spring chicken, but on the other, he’s friggin’ gone up against _God_ and lived to tell the tale. A little injection of excitement into his life, the chance to do some real good, _help_ people—that’s worth the risk. 

Of course, once Cas caught on to what he was doing—that Dean wasn’t just taking some time to himself to go hustle pool a few hours away—he wasn’t pleased. It caused more than one knock-down, drag-out fight between them, but Dean wouldn’t budge. Pretty quickly, Cas figured out that pushing Dean and needling him about the situation only made him more likely to take off and disappear, so (very obviously against his own desires) he stopped. 

Maybe Dean feels a little guilty about that, too, but not enough to change his ways. 

Anyway, nothing bad has happened. He knows what he’s doing, he’s a goddamn pro. Cas is just a party pooper. 

All that said—there is _one_ thing that Dean means to do—with Cas, _for_ Cas. It weighs heavily on his mind as he waits for the right moment, the right time. The perfect opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet, but maybe when Dean gets back from the hunt he has lined up, he’ll make it happen. Take Cas to a nice dinner out in Smith Center, maybe catch a movie. Hell, Dean’s staying at Rufus’ old cabin for this hunt, not even using his dwindling stack of credit cards—they should have plenty of money, could make a whole weekend trip of it.

 _Yeah,_ Dean thinks to himself as he slings his duffle up over his shoulder and surveys the empty War Room below. Off in the far reaches of the Bunker, he can hear the sound of the TV playing in the Dean Cave. It’s where he left Cas curled up like a cat with his tea and his knitting and _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ on autoplay. Cas likes the mythology in it, though has a _lot_ to say about the inaccuracies of the Heaven/Hell multiverse. 

Dean snorts when he thinks about it, but he’s smiling and there’s a warm, affectionate feeling filling up his chest. God, he loves Cas so damn much. For a minute, he thinks about going back down there, about actually _telling_ the guy as much. Cas deserves it, deserves so much more than Dean gives him on the regular. 

He hesitates with a hand on the iron railing, drumming his fingers. _Not today,_ Dean thinks. He’s just…not ready to go there yet. 

_When I get back,_ he reaffirms to himself. _When I get back, then I’ll tell him._

It’s the same thing he’s told himself the last six times he’s walked out the Bunker’s heavy front door, though to be fair, he means it every time. 

“Bye, Sweetheart!” he calls out, though he’s already said his goodbyes, kissed Cas thoroughly, and promised to be safe. His words echo back at him, but Cas doesn’t answer, probably can’t hear him as deep in the Bunker as he is. Or, he's still pouting about Dean leaving at all.

Dean shrugs and steps outside.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no Dean how could you?!
> 
> ...ok, but seriously can we just talk about the way Dean was 100% eating that chicken while Cas was going down on him? And Sam's face in the map table drawing lmaooo #prayforsam


	2. The Endless Uphill Climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's in trouble—must be Tuesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to Lindsay aka @LadyRandomBox who made some more amazing (and hilarious) art for this chapter!! Don't miss the caption on the phone call between Cas and Sam ;) 
> 
> Set-up over... bring on the main story! No chapter-specific warnings. I hope you all enjoy.

_He has something to prove,_

_he has nothing to lose._

_His pace is relentless, he wastes no time_

_What is it like in his shoes?_

There’s only so much binge-watching a human body can take, but Castiel has never been a quitter. Something about delving into a character’s life and watching it play out onscreen is distracting and soothing, disconnecting Castiel from reality in a way that none of his other hobbies have managed to achieve. Not to mention, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ has the benefit of allowing him to watch someone _else_ save the world for once.

“If the apocalypse comes, beep me,” is going to be Castiel’s new life motto, just in time for him to reasonably be able to expect that no one will ever take him up on the offer. 

The Dean Cave has become progressively more disastrous the longer Dean himself has been away, and if Castiel is letting the empty bottles and bags of chips pile up because he knows it will piss Dean off, so be it. If Dean gets to do things that he knows upset Castiel, he might not be able to stop him, but he _can_ be as petty as he is worried—which is a lot. 

As if adjusting to being human isn’t hard enough for Castiel, Dean has to go and pull this crap. Going off hunting on his own, refusing to let go of the job even though they _both_ know Dean’s been effectively done with hunting for years now. 

Castiel knows for a _fact—_ spoke to Jody about it only hours prior to Dean taking his leave from the Bunker—that Claire and Kaia were in the relative area. They were more than willing to take care of the vamp problem Dean is currently tracking. Castiel hopes—at the very least—that Dean will accept their assistance since he can’t seem to bring himself to outright pass the baton to the next generation. Every damn hunt is his “last”—right up until the next one comes along. 

Meanwhile, Castiel has his own plans to sit here and wallow. 

He supposes his current situation is leagues ahead of being sat down and told he needs to leave after being recently homeless and murdered, but that doesn’t make being newly human _easy._ It does feel like a do-over, though, a second chance at getting this experience right, and Castiel knows that needs to be enough. This time, he’s not holding back. 

So far, that outlook and willingness to use his words—it has paid off big time.

Dean loves him. Castiel knows that, whether Dean says it out loud or not. It shows in the way Dean looks at him, especially when he thinks Castiel doesn’t see. It’s obvious in his touches and his kisses, the way Dean’s lips linger on his skin, the way his hand unconsciously seeks to be on Castiel’s body. 

Of course, Dean’s been doing some of those things for years, it’s really only the physical intimacy that’s new. 

Still, as much as Castiel is enjoying this new permutation of their relationship, sometimes it brings up sour memories. The way _Dean_ should always have been his first, and not that manipulative reaper. The way Castiel has always wondered if his choice to sleep with her pushed Dean over the edge to kick him out of the Bunker. The sting of recalling the acute rejection Castiel felt in the moment, when Dean blindsided him by doing exactly that.

Showering in the Bunker’s incredible facilities, with its never-ending, high-pressured hot water and a seemingly endless supply of personal care products, is wonderful. But it also reminds Castiel of not having access to such things, of ponying up his last quarters to use a truckstop shower before his interview with Nora at the Gas-N-Sip. The _fear_ and the hunger that roiled in his gut, wondering what he would do for dinner that night if he didn’t get the job. 

Those memories, the _reminders_ even today—they _hurt._

At the time, Castiel had used that feeling of desperation to his advantage. Hitchhiking to Rexford from Lebanon had him frequenting a lot of Gas-N-Sips. He learned their practices, their routines, simply by observing. Like, for example—how hot dogs needed to be tossed after a certain number of hours sitting unsold on the rotating grill. Having no employment history to speak of, Castiel managed to convince Nora to let him demonstrate said knowledge in lieu of experience. 

Shamefully, he’d then deceived her, sneaking the expired hot dogs into his backpack when he was supposed to be throwing them out. At that point, he hadn’t eaten in two full days, so it was steal something or possibly pass out. The act itself felt justified—after all, the hot dogs were trash. But being forced so low to what he _was_ from what he _used_ to be, driven to betray the unearned trust of the only human who had thus far shown him real kindness—that was a true low. 

Castiel was a _warrior,_ one of God’s favorites. He was beyond human understanding or comprehension; a multidimensional being of pure power, might, and energy. He’d watched entire galaxies bloom, expand, and die in the blink of one of his many eyes, he’d seen what would become sentient life crawl forth from the muck. 

And he’d fallen. As Hester had so eloquently told him once upon a time, from the moment Castiel laid a hand on Dean in Hell, he was lost. How right she was. Time and time again, Castiel had sacrificed, had rebelled, had gone against everything he knew and given up entire _armies,_ not to mention Heaven itself, for _one man._

To be standing outside a Gas-N-Sip with stolen processed meats in his ratty bag, begging for meager, menial employment—it was devastating. Humiliating. Being perpetually hungry and lonely, sleeping in shelters and in the backseat of the Continental—once he’d saved enough to buy it—the man he gave up _everything_ for having kicked him to the curb. The circle of life was complete, and Castiel had transformed into a lowly creature of the muck.

As terrible as those days might have been, Castiel’s long forgiven Dean. In fact, he forgave Dean before he even know about Sam’s circumstances with Gadreel. Even still, the sharp ache of those memories still pains him. Especially now, as he struggles to cope with being human all over again. 

It was easier with his grace intact, buffering the realities—the _emotions_ —of humanity. Now, every twinge of his full bladder, every protest of his empty stomach, every time his eyes demand he close them and put himself to sleep, Castiel can’t _help_ but remember. Can’t help but _feel._

He pushes through it. Safe in the Bunker, Castiel throws himself into learning everything he can _about_ being human, in a way he didn’t have the luxury of doing the last time. Not only the mechanics—like how to recognize the need to pee before it hurts or how to eat when access to food is plentiful and varied—but the things that make a mortal life worth living. In that respect, Castiel understands why human scholars say true learning never ceases.

There’s the joy of watching a plant Castiel has sunk into the dirt with his own hands bloom for the very first time, its petals opening proudly but lazily towards the sun. There are those strange _emotions_ that seep into otherwise mundane moments—Castiel never imagined how sipping a hot cup of tea with honey while nursing a sore throat could be as mentally soothing as it is physical. Never understood how someone he cares about bringing him that cup of tea and kissing the top of his head could change the entire experience of drinking it. 

Some things aren’t existential, though. Netflix is definitely in that category, but Castiel appreciates it all the same. Knitting; zen but ultimately just a boredom hobby, although watching Dean pretend to like his creations is its own source of amusement. 

Even tasks such as washing dishes and folding clean laundry—Castiel can find a sense of noble purpose in them. Or at least, he can appreciate that he has access to the ample resources that lead to doing those chores to begin with. 

Dean would mock him if he were to admit that, the same way he did Castiel’s job at the Gas-N-Sip. Dean doesn’t understand— _can’t understand_ —his journey, his rise and fall and _everything_ he’s sacrificed to be here today. The internal strength he’s had to dig for and cling to in order to simply keep going. Dean doesn’t appreciate finding dignity in such small things, finding meaning in every corner of the life he’s chosen to lead. 

That part is a little frustrating for Castiel. Not that Dean doesn’t understand his experience—that can’t be helped, Dean has never been a celestial being. The problem is that _Dean_ won’t do the same work in his own way, in whatever “finding meaning” in this new life means to _him._ While Dean may not be a fallen angel, he _is_ a soldier who has been abruptly discharged from the battlefield. His entire life has been upended, just like Castiel’s has, but Dean seems intent on seeing that as a bad thing. Instead of moving forward, he clings to what’s gone.

Having been in love with Dean since what feels like the beginning, Castiel is happy to stand by his side and be a reprieve from that existential confusion, a shelter from the storm. What he is _not_ willing to do is turn himself into a punching bag or a convenient outlet for Dean’s insecurities with no significant return on investment. He’s not keen on standing by while Dean flounders, trying to relive his glory days as a hunter while keeping the pieces of Castiel that are useful to him on standby off to the side. 

Castiel loves Dean, but the one thing he knows about humanity is the importance of standing on his own two feet; of having himself to rely on when everything else is gone. Who’s to say when that might happen again, for any of them? Castiel knows that looming threat better than he’d like. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t _want_ Dean more than anything, that he wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth to make their relationship work. Dean is his world, he just can’t be his entire life. 

Although, right now, eschewing hunting means that Castiel’s entire life boils down to a skein of yarn and a TV show that aired twenty years ago, plus all the food scraps and trash he’s left to accumulate around him. Despite the _smallness_ of it all compared to stopping an apocalypse, it feels… _good._ Definitely not a forever plan, but it is entirely pleasant for Castiel to have nothing to worry about save for a fictional character’s fate. 

Well, that and whatever trouble Dean has gotten himself into.

His phone remains dark, but it’s normal for them to go the length of Dean’s hunts without speaking. Dean will send progress updates, sometimes, but just as frequently, he won’t. He _always_ answers if Castiel texts or calls, though, which is enough. If Dean needs his space, Castiel’s not going to cling and mother-hen him until he feels suffocated enough to take his leave permanently. If hunting is what Dean wants to do, it isn’t Castiel’s place to tell him he can’t. Especially now that his brother (and every other remnant of his old life) is gone.

Truthfully, Castiel can’t quite believe that Dean didn’t follow Sam out to the West Coast. He still wakes up on occasion wondering if that day will be the one Dean realizes his mistake and takes off for the Pacific, with or without Castiel by his side. 

On the other hand, most of Dean’s hunts don’t take more than five days, so Castiel has usually heard _something_ by now. And despite his lack of communication during, Dean _always_ texts when he’s on his way home. It’s somewhere around Willow’s drug-paralleled descent into magic addiction on season six of _Buffy_ that Castiel realizes Dean’s seventh day away from the Bunker has come and gone. 

Castiel feels a little guilty, sitting up in his Cheeto-dust covered sweater and brushing the crumbs from his lap. Perhaps he should have been more diligent regarding the passing of time—after all, Dean _is_ out on a dangerous hunt. No matter how unstoppable a seasoned hunter he believes himself to be, Dean is also only human, and he’s alone. 

Suddenly, there’s a prickly sensation rippling through the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck. Almost as if a wind has nipped through the bunker, making him shift and glance around, trying to locate its origin. Against all reason, Castiel tenses, as if someone might be hovering in the doorway, watching him. 

_Impossible,_ Castiel thinks, but he can’t quite shake the feeling. 

Ever since he lost his grace, Castiel has wondered specifically about what happens to any earthly prayers that might be directed his way. Most humans forgo praying to specific angels (save for the most well-known) in this day and age, but every now and then Castiel would hear from one who was seeking him out specifically. Just like any other prayers, Castiel assumes they’re simply broadcasted onto a frequency he can no longer hear, a wavelength just beyond his perception. 

These chills have happened before, though, and he wonders.

Picking up his phone, Castiel doesn’t waste time with text, he calls Dean directly. Dean’s line rings and rings and rings, and then clicks over to voicemail with no answer. 

“Dean, it’s me,” Castiel says, through gritted teeth. “If you’re going to be so terribly inconsiderate as to continue running off on unnecessary and dangerous hunts by your lonesome, you could at least have the decency to let me know that you’re safe.” He pauses. “I’m still angry at you.” 

After hanging up, Castiel stares at the backlit screen, chewing his lip and sending off a similarly-worded text message, just in case. Perhaps Dean is simply in FBI mode, meeting with some witnesses and unable to answer his phone at the moment. Surely, he’ll call back shortly. They can bicker about Dean’s choices and etiquette then.

Castiel only has the patience to wait about three full minutes before he’s calling Dean again. Once, twice, three attempts. Each time Dean doesn’t answer, he leaves a message. The first one is angry, the second is worried, and the third—well, Castiel wouldn’t call it _pleading,_ but Dean might, just to piss him off that much further.

The fourth time he dials, the line rings only once before switching over to voicemail. Either Dean’s cell phone has died, or it’s been turned off. Castiel’s not sure which option chills him more.

Without further hesitation, he’s dialing Jody’s number instead. “Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, now standing and pacing back and forth across the Dean Cave’s carpeted floor. Castiel’s fist clenches and unclenches at his side as he waits for what feels like hours and is really only seconds.

“Castiel? That really you? This is a surprise!” Jody’s cheerful voice floods its way over the wire and Castiel relaxes, just slightly. At least Jody is alright. Perhaps Dean is even there with her, or she knows where he is. She must be keeping up with Claire and Kaia, after all. 

“You’ll have to excuse me if I skip over the small talk today, Jody, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me you’ve heard from Dean. Or Claire and Kaia, at least.” 

There’s a short pause, but Jody rolls with Castiel’s brusque attitude like it doesn’t bother her in the least. “Well—sure,” she replies quickly. “Claire and Kaia are here with me now, and Dean, uh...Yeah. I spoke to him maybe four days ago?”

Castiel’s heart clenches and his stomach threatens to reject all of the Cheetos he’s eaten right there. “But—but not since? Not a text, or—Jody, you have to get up there, right away. You said Claire and Kaia are with you, the three of you need to—”

“Castiel,” Jody interrupts gently, although there’s a concerned edge to her voice. “The girls and I—Listen, Dean didn’t want our help. Claire tried, but he was adamant that he had a handle on it. From what he showed us, it should’ve been a milk run. One vamp holed up in a little cave just north of Rufus’ old place, open and shut deal. Dean’s handled way worse than one vamp on his own plenty of times before.”

Increasingly distraught, Castiel runs a hand through his hair. “But you haven’t heard from him since? Jody, he’s not answering his phone. He hasn’t contacted me at all. He—”

“Shit,” Jody swears. It’s probably supposed to be under her breath, but Castiel hears her just fine. “Castiel, I’m so sorry. When Dean said he was all good up there, the girls and I took off for a werewolf case outside of Chicago. If you’re still at the bunker, we’re farther away than you are right now.” 

The air rushes out of Castiel’s lungs like he’s been punched, and the hair at the nape of his neck is back to standing on end. Despite that, he flips into soldier mode like it was only yesterday he was commanding a full garrison of angels. Like he still is one, and not a fragile, mostly-useless human. Dean needs him, so fragile-human-Castiel will simply have to be good enough.

“Are there any other hunters in the area?”

“Not that I know of, but I can put some calls out. Castiel, I—”

“Good, do that,” Castiel snaps. “I need to go,” he tells Jody before hanging up abruptly. There’s one more avenue he has to pursue, and to do so, Castiel gets down on his knees. Not that it’s necessary for a prayer to be heard, but it is habit, so Castiel figures the gesture can’t hurt. He folds his hands into his lap.

 _Jack,_ he prays. _Jack, I need you, please come see me._ After a second’s thought, Castiel tacks on, _I’m at the Bunker,_ just in case—warding and all. 

He waits. Five full minutes with nary the flap of a wing according to his watch, before trying again. _Jack, please, I’m begging. I know that you’re busy, but I need you. Dean needs you. He may be in trouble._

Nothing. Nothing happens. The Bunker is as silent and empty as ever, save for the TV show Castiel forgot to put on pause that is now mocking him with its not-nearly-as-enticing supernatural crises. With a grimace, Castiel gets to his feet, knees cracking as he straightens up. He punches the “off” button on the side of the TV more forcefully than necessary before dragging a hand over his mouth.

_Where the hell is Jack?_

When a full half-hour passes with no word from the new God, Castiel quickly shifts into Plan B. Phone to his ear, he’s down the hall in Dean’s room, packing a bag. “Sam,” he says with relief, when the younger Winchester picks up after only two rings.

“Hey, Cas! How’s it going?”

Castiel hates to do this to him, he really does. Sam is _out_ of this life, but Dean is still his brother and he deserves to know. Taking a deep breath, Castiel fills him in plainly and succinctly, including the unfortunate news about Jack also being M.I.A. He can tell that Sam is upset, but he seems to shift into hunter-mode just as quickly as Castiel did.

“Map says we’re both about a nineteen-hour drive from Whitefish,” Sam tells him worriedly. The sound of his laptop keys clacking in the background is soothing to Castiel, a reminder that he’s not in this alone. Even still, this isn’t Sam’s problem to fix, either.

“I’m going to fly,” Castiel says decisively. “It makes no sense to waste nearly a full day when I could be there in half the time.”

“Yeah…” Sam agrees. More clacking. “Flight out of Kansas City International at six-twenty this morning. Can you get there? It’s nearly a four-hour drive from the Bunker.” 

Castiel checks his watch; almost two AM, but there are cars in the garage that Dean has proudly told him “run like brand-new, zero-to-sixty faster than any foreign piece of shit on the market today.” He’ll make it. 

“I’ll cast a concealing charm on the vehicle so that I don’t get pulled over.”

The furious typing stops. “Wait—that’s a thing? Cas, you can’t ever tell Dean—”

“Why do you think I haven’t?” He sniffs. “I’m not a complete imbecile.” 

“You know, when you withhold dangerous spells from Dean, it’s polite to let the much cooler, way more level-headed brother who is also your best friend in on the good stuff.”

Despite the situation, Castiel smiles fondly and rolls his eyes. “I miss you too, Sam.” 

“Listen—I have something important I need to be here in L.A. for tomorrow.” Castiel’s smile drops immediately off of his face. It’s unlike Sam to not pick up on the urgency of a situation, but it’s also not Castiel’s place to chastise him. There’s a moment of silence across the line and then Sam sighs, clearly relenting. “Cas, we were waiting to—fuck. Alright, here it is. Eileen is pregnant, and she has a major ultrasound tomorrow.” 

Castiel’s mood cycles so fast, he can barely keep up with it himself. From neutrally concerned up to beyond elated, and then all the way down to depressed when he remembers why he and Sam are even talking to begin with. “Sam,” he starts. “Congratulations, truly. I’m so sorry these circumstances—”

“Nah,” Sam replies, and Castiel can picture him waving him off. “This is on Dean, and you know it. If he wasn’t so…”

“Stubborn?” 

“That’s one word for it. Anyway, I figure by the time we’re done with the appointment, you should be at the cabin. Rufus’ place is only maybe twenty minutes or so from the airport—you can rent a car or take a taxi. You have your cards?”

Nodding even though Sam can’t see, Castiel pulls out his wallet and glances over the ID card Dean acquired for him. “Castiel Novak,” glares back at him with Jimmy’s face and corresponding birthday. It’s a bit unsettling, but today, he’s glad to have it. “My license and the backup bottomless VISA Charlie set up for you two,” Castiel affirms.

“Great, okay…” Sam trails off as the keys click again. “I booked you on that flight. Just check-in at the counter for American Airlines and they’ll give you your ticket. And Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make me tell you to be careful.”

Letting out a tired chuckle, Castiel’s mood sours and he makes a frustrated noise. “None of us should be doing this any longer,” he says quietly.

“Preaching to the choir, Cas,” Sam replies. “Bring him home. And then keep him there.” 

“If only.” Castiel moves to hang up and then thinks better of it. “Sam—still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“Pray to Jack, keep praying. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but perhaps if he hears from you, too—”

“You got it.” 

The line goes dead. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Castiel hastily finishes packing and slings the duffle up over his shoulder. It’s all Dean’s clothes in the bag, Castiel doesn’t have so much as a t-shirt to his name. Not that Dean hasn’t tried to take him shopping, but Castiel’s adamantly refused. He _likes_ sharing Dean’s things—likes being surrounded by them, especially when Dean isn’t around.

Also, the memory of having to throw away his own soiled outfit and don other people’s discarded and mismatched items haunts him. That’s a low moment in Castiel’s life, one he’s reminded of every time he gets dressed in the morning. After millenia of never needing to worry about something so trivial as _clothing,_ it’s hard not to think of the only other time he did. Those items he took from the laundromat became his, but Castiel’s never wanted anything less. 

It’s easier to simply wear Dean’s clothes, to use his body wash, to dabble in his hair gel. So long as Dean lets him, Castiel has proof that he’s wanted. That he has a place here, that Dean is not preparing to drop another bomb (or drop kick him to the curb). Yes, he knows how contrary that all is to his “stand on your own two feet” motto, but this is...how did Dean explain it when Castiel spoke to him about it? 

Ah, yes. This is a _coping mechanism._

Castiel’s not perfect, and he’s fine with that.

The car he selects is the green Ford Thunderbird. Dean once told him that the vehicle could hit one hundred miles per hour if the driver really pushed it. No doubt, Dean would kill him if he knew Castiel was actually considering doing so, but it’s Dean’s fault they’re even in this situation to begin with. That thought fills Castiel with sorrow and fear, and for the hundredth time since his first attempt in the Dean-Cave, he presses “Call” and listens to the line ring once before getting Dean’s voicemail yet again. 

_Time to go._

Swallowing all of that emotion down and leaving only the stone-cold grunt of a soldier behind, Castiel shoves his bag into the passenger’s seat. He quickly casts the concealment spell—it won’t make the car invisible, but it will prevent anyone from _seeing_ it. For as long as the spell lasts, anyone who doesn’t know for sure that the car exists and is _there_ will find their eyes simply sliding over it, the information essentially deleted. 

It’s a useful spell, one that Castiel has utilized frequently in his post-Fall treks across the country while hunting (with and without the Winchesters), when he needed to get from one place to another with expedience. It also once allowed him to hit an unsuspecting Crowley with the front bumper of his vehicle. Not for any reason, just for fun. 

Today, it allows him to cover the four hours and two hundred and seven miles between the Bunker and Kansas City International Airport in record time. Averaging ninety miles per hour on the highway, the magically protected car is shaking and smoking by the time Castiel guides it into long-term parking a mere two and a half hours later. Castiel can’t say he likes the sounds the Thunderbird is making (or the smells that are leaching from beneath the hood) but that is a problem for another time. 

He doesn’t so much as glance back over his shoulder at the still-hissing car as he sprints for the terminal. Checking in is a breeze; Castiel’s ticket is waiting exactly the way Sam said it would be, and no one questions his forged ID. That’s a sizable relief, considering that Castiel just drove four hours in the _opposite_ direction from Whitefish, Montana. If that effort ended up with him grounded, he would not be a very happy camper.

It’s really not until Castiel is belted into his coach-cabin window seat on American Airlines Flight 551 with service from Kansas City, Missouri to Whitefish, Montana, that the gravity of the entire situation really begins to sink in. As the plane taxis and takes off, pressing Castiel back into the cheap fabric with its g-forces, he blinks back tears. Much as he’d like to be an emotionless soldier, Castiel left that creature behind ten years ago when he rebelled for Dean. 

In truth, he’s been human for far longer than he realized; losing his grace was just a technicality. 

When the plane lands and Castiel has to go and sort through whatever went wrong in Whitefish, has to pull Dean out of whatever frying pan he’s found himself in yet again, he’ll be strong. For the next couple of hours, Castiel just wants to be a human, worried about the man he loves.

The other thing during the flight he does is to pray to Jack, with no avail. At this point, his prayers are becoming a lot less reverent and a lot more “Go to your room without dinner,” but Castiel’s getting frustrated. _Where_ is Jack? Why is he ignoring Castiel’s (and presumably Sam’s) pleas? It’s so unlike him, and now Castiel has to split his worry between Dean and his surrogate son. Although, admittedly, Jack is slightly better equipped than Dean is to deal with whatever threat he might inadvertently come up against.

By the time his flight is back on the ground and taxiing to the arrival gate, Castiel is all worked up. Before the cabin even has the go-ahead to turn on their electronic devices, Castiel’s phone is powered up and dialing Dean’s number yet again. Still no answer, plus no messages and no voicemails. From Dean, anyway—there’s one text from Jody indicating that she and the girls are headed in Whitefish’s direction. There’s another from Sam asking Castiel to check-in and update him when he knows anything. 

Sam also relays that he’s booked him a rental car, and Castiel follows his instructions to claim it. The air outside of the arrivals terminal is extremely chilly, at least ten degrees cooler than Kansas. For early fall, it’s definitely a different energy up here in the mountains. It’s cold enough that Castiel stops to dig one of Dean’s coats out of his duffle and layer it over his sweater. He shivers and doesn’t stop shivering. Not until he’s been behind the wheel of the plasticky Nissan Versa Sam picked out with the heat blasting for nearly ten full minutes.

With his smartphone guiding the way, Castiel skirts the edges of Whitefish’s touristy town center, heading down a winding side road that gives way to an essentially dirt path. Sam has assured him that if he hits the dirt path then he’s on the right track. Supposedly, it’ll dead-end at Rufus’ cabin, the only housing structure in the immediate area. It was a safe haven for all of them so many years ago, but Castiel wasn’t quite in his right mind during the times he was here. Besides, he had working wings then, and no need to memorize roadways. 

Regardless, he finds the cabin with little difficulty. It’s very much as Castiel remembers it, though perhaps slightly more rundown. Not as much as he would have thought considering the time that has gone by—the various hunters that come through here on occasion must be working to keep it standing. 

Despite that, the cabin is still a dump. The driveway is unpaved, covered with a layer of fresh leaves that crunch beneath Castiel’s boots as he steps out and old, decaying ones that he can feel squish below that. The cabin is sagging, its bones visibly tired of remaining upright. The small covering that juts out over the porch and the shingles of the main roof aren’t even visible; buried beneath a thick layer of moss, ivy, and more leaves. 

None of that really catches Castiel’s attention, though, because there, in the driveway, sits Baby.

She’s gleaming in the early afternoon sun, shiny and beautiful as ever, though her hood is stone-cold when Castiel lays a hand on it. Not the best sign, but perhaps it means nothing. Perhaps Dean is just on the other side of that barely-clinging screen door that sits crooked on its hinges. Best case scenario, Castiel flew all this way for nothing, and he’ll spend the afternoon making love to Dean on moth-eaten blankets in front of a roaring fire.

Hope is a funny thing.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, poorly attempting to center himself. When he’s sure he won’t break down from whatever he finds inside the cabin, he leaves Baby behind and tries the front door.

It opens easily, if noisily, in his hand. Castiel tries not to read into that—maybe it’s just the way the cabin is kept. After all, the windows are cracked and barely sealed, the walls not far from disintegrating where they stand. If someone _really_ wanted to get in, a lock on the door would hardly dissuade them. The only things worth keeping out don’t generally care about locks, either, and one quick look tells Castiel that the salt lines and warding are the most intact of anything in this place. 

“Dean?” Castiel calls out hopefully, but his only answer is the wind disturbing the shutters and a bird who it sounds like has nested somewhere in the walls or roof. “Damn it.” Looking around, Castiel can see the kitchen and living space in their entirety, and it does look like Dean was here. 

Familiar duffle on the couch, open and near-empty save for a few changes of clothing, all of the weapons Dean would have normally stored within missing. A quick peek into the singular bedroom finds it completely undisturbed, a thick layer of dust on the blanket that covers the queen-sized mattress. If Dean crashed here at all, it was likely out on the couch like the heathen he is. 

That’s so _Dean_ that Castiel snorts a little. 

Stepping back out into the living space, he notes a map of the local area pinned fast to the wall. It’s fairly complex, noting in detail the mountain ranges and streams and other minutiae of the surrounding forest. It’s the kind of thing you’d find prominently displayed in gas stations and such back before MapQuest and smartphones were a thing. Back when humans had to use their own memories and actual landmarks to navigate. Perhaps it’s been Dean’s for a very long time, perhaps it was already here in the cabin. 

Wherever it came from, Dean’s put it to use. There’s a red pin sticking a scrap of paper with Dean’s handwriting to the cabin’s location, somewhere to the right of the main mountain range. “Rufus’,” the note says. “Town,” says another one, which Castiel recognizes to be the main tourist-y trap he drove along the outskirts of on the way here. 

Then there are a bunch of pins securing tiny scraps with numbers to the map, and Castiel quickly matches them with a legend key pinned to the bottom right of the whole setup. Numbers one through five are attacks, locations of victims where they were last seen or grabbed, mostly around town. There’s no notable pattern, aside from the attacks occurring at night. Number six is the only one with a victim who managed to escape. 

According to Dean’s notes, he interviewed her. Unfortunately, the only useful information she was able to provide was in the realm of, “sharp teeth” and “more than one.” 

_More than one._

That’s new information, something that either Dean learned well after he got here or intentionally didn’t relay to either Castiel or Jody. This was not a simple milk run. This was not just one vampire. In all likelihood, Dean was (is) dealing with a nest.

“Goddamn it, Dean,” Castiel mutters, shaking his head as his eyes roam the rest of the map. 

Somewhere off to the left from the marker denoting Rufus’ cabin, there’s a blue pushpin. It’s securing a number seven to the map, and Castiel finds the corresponding number on Dean’s legend. 

_Park Service Cabin. Not in use. Possible nest._

Well, that isn’t good. Castiel assumes there was more information to go with that one-liner, details that Dean did not translate to pen and paper, but the map paints a pretty clear picture of what is going on. Dean came here and investigated what he (presumably) thought was a single vampire preying on tourists. By the time he realized it was a nest, Claire and Kaia were long gone, so he decided to take the nest on himself. He received intel from someone local that a disused cabin in the middle of the woods might be a possible hideout and headed there, probably with intentions of burning it down.

Castiel pauses in his train of thought, glancing around the empty room. _But he didn’t come back._ Something went wrong, and Dean didn’t come back. The implications are overwhelming, terrifying, but Castiel refuses to entertain the possibility that he’s arrived too late for a rescue mission. The _only_ thing he can do right now is try his best to find Dean and bring him back alive.

Wandering away from the map, Castiel pulls out his phone and swipes a few times before lifting the speaker to his ear. Sam picks up almost immediately, like he’s been staring at his phone, waiting for this very moment. 

“It doesn’t look good,” Castiel starts, sure that he isn’t imagining the concerned sigh that comes from the other end. He fills Sam in on the details once again, rummaging through the kitchen for any more clues while he does. The smell that meets Castiel’s nose when he opens the refrigerator is putrid, rotting meat, and he nearly gags.

“Cas? You okay?” 

“Ugh,” Castiel replies, scrunching his nose as he grabs a plastic bag that’s lying on the counter and uses it like a glove to extricate the offending paper-wrapped maybe-burger. “Yes. Appears to be Dean’s dinner from several days ago. Also not a great sign.”

Sam’s keyboard is clacking away again over the line as Castiel carries the offending biohazard outside and drops it into a garbage can. “Neither is this,” Sam replies. “I managed to track Dean’s phone, within a mile radius. Guess where the center is?” 

Castiel rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, suppressing a shiver when the wind works its way under his shirt. “Somewhere to the left of this house, I’m assuming.” 

“Yeah,” Sam replies softly. They’re both silent, save for the sound of Sam’s laptop slamming shut. “I’ll be up there as quickly as I can, Cas.” 

“You know that I can’t wait,” Castiel replies. 

“I know. Be careful, okay? If you have signal, which—I’m not counting on it, since I couldn’t track Dean more precisely, but—”

“I’ll do whatever I can to keep you in the loop,” Castiel promises, already heading for his rental car. “Be safe getting here. Coordinate with Jody when you’re close.” He hangs up before Sam can respond. Opening the passenger’s side door, Castiel unzips his own duffle and begins unloading everything useful. Out comes a small backpack, into which Castiel places the survival kit he purloined from the bottom of Dean’s closet. Joining that is a satchel of first-aid supplies, a tightly-rolled blanket, a bunch of protein bars, and water he picked up at a local Gas-N-Sip. 

That done, Castiel layers up; pair of sweatpants over the jeans he’s already wearing, a second sweater over his underlayers of t-shirt and flannel. Over the top, he slips on Dean’s heaviest jacket, which is not very heavy at all. As an afterthought, Castiel tucks two sets of his own knit gloves, one scarf, and one beanie into the bag, too. He tugs the second hat onto his head. It’s not cold enough for Castiel to put the rest on now, but come nightfall, it will be.

Slamming the car door shut, he moves onto the Impala. Unlike the front door of the cabin, Baby is locked up tight. Castiel finds the spare hidden in the wheel well easily enough, popping the trunk before replacing the key for safekeeping. 

He gears up. Machete in a holder on his belt. Pistols with extra magazines strapped to his thigh and ankle. Knife secured to his other ankle. Angel blade up his sleeve, just for posterity. Dean may be under some delusion that Castiel is a shitty hunter, but that is so far from reality it’s laughable. It’s true that he doesn’t _enjoy_ hunting any longer, and yes, getting used to falling back on his muscles and weapons instead of his grace took some time, but Castiel is a _soldier._

He never stopped being one. His interests may have shifted, it’s true—but the mindset, the ability to think and act like a warrior, is something Castiel will never lose. It’s something he slips on and fits him now like Dean’s most comfortable, worn-in flannel. 

Castiel glances up and checks the sun where it’s high in the sky. What remnants of his angel senses still linger in the back of his mind tell him that it’s a good six or so hours until nightfall. They also point him northeast (although the position of the sun helps with that, too) without need for a compass. Castiel steels himself against the way the wind has already begun to chill his nose, steps off the edge of the cleared lot, and sets off into the deep woods.

 _Hang on, Dean,_ he thinks, directing the missive as hard as he possibly can in Dean’s direction. _I’m coming._

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean, you banana. You're so lucky to have a Castiel! But what is he going to find out there in the woods?!


	3. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not long before his body is itching to move, and _there_ is an observable difference between hunting as a human versus being an angel. With his grace intact, Castiel could have crouched here motionless for years without so much as blinking. Now? It’s been seven minutes and his thigh is cramping. Also, he’s getting hungry and his bladder is beginning to signal that it needs to be emptied...again.
> 
> However uncomfortable, the soldier part of Castiel wins its battle over the cranky human side, and he stays put. He needs to be patient, to wait and see _someone_ coming or going from the house before he can even think about making a move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will come quicker now. There is more beautiful art in this chapter from [LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox) (on twitter, or [tumblr](www.ladyrandombox.tumblr.com), if you prefer). Please give her all the love!
> 
> thank you to @coinofstone and @ladyrandombox for editing!
> 
> Unrelated-to-story note:  
> A gentle request/reminder that my complete works/individual chapters go through multiple editors and sometimes uncredited alpha readers. These are people whom I trust that read for story, plot, mistakes, etc. Not everything gets caught--that happens to professional, paid writers, too. 
> 
> Understanding that some "critical" comments are well-meaning, if I am looking for concrit, I will seek it while the story is being written. Sometimes, I will solicit random opinions via social media posts to read a chapter early. 
> 
> Bottom line: I am not looking for critical feedback after posting. I do not want random readers to "help me improve." If this stance offends you, that's perfectly fine, don't read. If you do read and find that you don't like the fic, just X-it out. Hateful and nasty comments or ones who can't respect my boundaries will be deleted without reply. I pour hundreds of hours a month into creating and providing free content for y'all to enjoy. I absolutely am only looking for positive feedback. Sorry if you don't like this, but I literally spend more hours on writing fanfic than any part-time job I've ever held. 
> 
> If you don't enjoy a work of mine, that's FINE, totally cool, just X-it out and move on to something you do like. Commenting to tell me you hated xyz and wish I did abc and that you hate me as a person is never going to help someone improve, btw. It just hurts, and I'm not interested in it. I've disclosed before that I'm a trauma survivor, I tend to have amplified, emotional reactions to certain things, and (right or wrong) one of them is unsolicited criticism of something I worked hard on and am proud of. So I'm ASKING NICELY: please, don't give it.
> 
> Thank you for understanding, and I'm very sorry to the VAST MAJORITY of wonderful, supportive readers/commenters who keep having to read this crap, obviously, it does not apply to you and I'm very grateful for each and every one of you.

_Death doesn't discriminate, between the sinners and the saints._

_It takes and it takes and it takes,_

_and we keep living anyway._

_We rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes._

_And if there's a reason I'm still alive,_

_when everyone who loves me has died—_

_I'm willing to wait for it._

As he hikes over brush and tree roots, Castiel curses the lack of clear walking space. This is slower going than he’d hoped for, and after walking five or so miles, the cabin’s location is still at least another few away. And that’s providing he’s headed in the right direction, that the map’s location was accurate, and that Castiel’s own navigation abilities are on point. The last part, at least, he’s fairly confident in. He didn’t spend millions of years traveling the whole of the universe based solely on sight and sound to be foiled by the lack of an electronic GPS. 

As the day wears on and the forest becomes deeper, quieter, Castiel begins to suspect what Dean’s problem may have been, what he likely wasn’t counting on, what got him caught. 

Out here, the tree cover is thick, even with so many of the autumn-touched leaves already having detached and fluttered to the ground. Hints of sun, spires and glints that pierce through the knitted branches overhead and make Castiel squint if he happens to look up at the wrong time are few and far between. Mostly, it’s shade and shadow, the perfect dwelling place for a creature of the night. 

If Castiel’s suppositions are correct, Dean came out here expecting to have the advantage of daylight and sun on his side. Very likely, the cover provided by the forest canopy allowed whatever he was hunting to surprise Dean and gain the upper hand. Without being fatalistic or allowing himself to ponder on what happened to Dean after, Castiel admits to himself that this is the most realistic scenario.

As such, he keeps his own senses sharp, doesn’t allow himself to succumb to a wandering mind or even to fall into the rhythmic lull of putting one foot in front of the other. Every twig snap, every lyrical chirp of a bird off in the distance has Castiel on edge. He keeps a hand on his machete, his muscles tense and braced for a fight.

Despite his readiness, though, nothing happens. No monsters jump from the shadows with teeth bared, ready to rip Castiel’s throat out. It’s just him, the crunch of leaves and bark underfoot, and the wind, which is becoming increasingly biting by the hour. 

Somewhere, around what Castiel estimates must be less than a mile from the cabin’s supposed location, he stops to dig out that scarf, the gloves, and a protein bar. The bar goes down like chalk; dry and tasteless, and Castiel isn’t sure whether it’s his apprehension over Dean or just the quality of the “Peanut Butter Power-Up” to begin with.

When he sets off again, he’s slightly warmer (thanks to his poorly-knitted outerwear) but no less worried. Steadfastly, Castiel not only refuses to consider the possibility that Dean may not even be alive ( _he would know. If Dean were no longer on this plane, Castiel would_ know), but that he may not be out here in this cabin at all. 

The nest could have moved on, taking their newly acquired food source with them. They may never have been staying there, to begin with—it could have been a trap, something to lure the hunter sniffing up their trail straight into their grasp.

Shaking his head, Castiel takes a few deep breaths and stops his mind from drifting further down that track. To distract himself, he pulls out his phone, intending to send Sam a message. 

_No Signal._

The words stare back at him in place of his service bars mockingly. Of course, Castiel knew this was possible—likely, even. Still, it’s a blow he was hoping to avoid. If he needs help, if Dean needs a quick extrication—well, they’re really on their own now. Castiel swallows and puts the phone back in his pocket, glancing around at the densely-packed trees before setting off again.

_Only thing to do is move forward._

So much about being human seems to revolve around that mantra, Castiel is coming to realize. 

The map on Rufus' wall showed the cabin—Castiel’s destination—nestled in a small valley, right at the base of the major mountain range. The towering, snow-capped peaks of their highest ridges loom larger as they become closer, and Castiel slows his pace to begin taking careful cover as he approaches. Theoretically, no one is expecting him. He never stopped in town or spoke to any locals, aside from buying that case of water. Unless one of the vampires has a part-time gig at the Gas-N-Sip, they probably aren’t onto him. 

He snorts at the thought, and the irony of his own experience.

All the same, Castiel nears the edge of the forest where it drops off into the vale with extreme caution. Instead of just clomping up, sticks breaking and birds flapping away as he unsettles them from their nests in the brush, Castiel skulks near-silently behind trees and peers warily through bushes. 

It’s with his heart pounding in his chest that he pulls some evergreen branches aside and looks with trepidation down the slope and into the carved-out swale below. Miraculously, nestled between even more trees and with the mountains framing it nostalgically from behind, there is the cabin. _Exactly_ where Dean said it would be. 

“Son of a bitch,” Castiel murmurs under his breath, a small smile spreading across his tired face. As much as his heart is urging him to sprint down that hill and burst through the front door of the dilapidated little building like the A-Team itself, Castiel forces himself to sit back, be still, and wait. All of his suspicions and educated guesswork have been correct so far, and it follows that the direct approach is what screwed Dean over in the first place.

No, Castiel’s best chance at getting them both out of here alive is to stake this place out first. 

Thankfully, where he’s sitting, he’s already fairly well-concealed. There are brush and bushes all around him, some of them so uncomfortably close that he’s being poked by their branches. Castiel sighs and settles in anyway— _safety first,_ and this is a good hiding spot. 

It’s not long before his body is itching to move, though, and _there_ is an observable difference between hunting as a human versus being an angel. With his grace intact, Castiel could have crouched here motionless for _years_ without so much as blinking. Now? It’s been seven minutes and his thigh is cramping. Also, he’s getting hungry and his bladder is beginning to signal that it needs to be emptied...again.

However uncomfortable, the soldier part of Castiel wins its battle over the cranky human side, and he stays put. He needs to be patient, to wait and see _someone_ coming or going from the house before he can even think about making a move. 

He is slightly concerned about being discovered before that, though, the way he surmises Dean must have been. Where he is, if the vampires return through the woods, it’s likely they’ll smell him before seeing him. On the other hand, when Castiel tests the wind, he decides that it’s blowing in his favor—unless they come directly from the east. 

_Unlikely,_ he surmises. The most direct paths through the forest from town would be via the south to north. Plus, there appears to be a dirt road similar to the one leading away from Rufus’ cabin that runs out from the valley and into the woods to the west. A rusted-out truck sitting in the (semblance of a) driveway suggests it’s as likely as not that someone is home.

And so, Castiel decides to roll the dice. He ignores his twinging bladder and his empty stomach and his painful leg, and he waits. He’s smart enough, at least, to turn off his phone. It would be just his luck that the moment the device finds service would be the same one the members of this nest show their faces. Unquestionably, an electronic _ping_ from the hillside above would certainly ruin his chances of seizing the element of surprise. 

The sun is just beginning to drop down behind the sharp cliff peaks that press towards the sky, darkening the tree-dense valley to a level that’s close to full nightfall very quickly. With the thicket and the protective cradle of the mountains above, Castiel completely understands how Dean misjudged his own advantage here, even in daylight. 

All of a sudden, the energy below changes. People— _things—_ start moving about inside the cabin. A light flips on, illuminating the grimy glass of the window behind the porch, and even with a wall and several hundred feet of distance, Castiel can hear raucous laughter and hard rock music start up from the other side. He forces himself to take a calm, cleansing breath, and to not react emotionally. He succeeds _(barely)_ , despite the way his brain is reminding him several times per second that _Dean is in there, Dean is in there, Dean is in there._

Fortunately for Castiel’s sanity, it’s not long before one of the creatures comes stumbling out the creaking front door. The state of this cabin makes Rufus’ place look like a five-star resort, and when the screen slams shuts behind him, the entire front wall wobbles. 

The vampire has his human face on, and he looks like your average, twenty-something hot mess. Skinny black jeans and a ripped sleeveless band tee—in this cold, if Castiel didn’t already know they were monsters, the look would certainly make him suspicious. Castiel himself has _five_ layers on and he certainly wouldn’t describe himself as _warm._

Horrifyingly, the vampire looks like a _child._ Barely out of his teens and clearly turned before he learned to use a hairbrush properly, it’s easy to imagine him using that baby face to lure in unsuspecting victims. As Castiel watches, the vamp leans against one of the posts holding the rotting overhang of the front porch upright, causing the whole thing to shift just slightly to the left under his weight. There’s a beer in his one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he looks positively bored as he stares out into the forest. 

Castiel finds himself holding his breath when the vampire’s eyes pass over his hiding spot, frozen fast to the ice-cold ground like his life depends on it. Turns out, his fear is unnecessary—the kid isn’t even really looking, Castiel doesn’t think. He’s just killing time. That theory is solidified when the vamp tips his chin over his shoulder and barks something into the house, his actual words lost to Castiel in the wind. 

A minute later, several more Hot-Topical poster boys wander out of the house too, all of them rough-housing and carrying on. In another context, this could be any group of college boys stepping out of Frathouse Row. The last one through the door trips a little, steadying himself on the jam only to lift his hand and wipe the back of his wrist across his face. He looks high, like he just—

 _Blood._ There’s blood on the back of his arm, a smear remaining at the corner of his mouth, and Castiel growls a little, despite himself. 

_It’s a good sign,_ he forces himself to think, gripping the grass in front of his knees with white-knuckled fists. _It means Dean is alive in there. It means there’s still time._ That’s as far as Castiel lets _that_ train of thought derail, because the alternative is simply unimaginable. 

By some miracle, the vampires leave. While Castiel holds his breath and barely dares to hope, they all pile into the truck and set off down the gravel road. There are five of them total; three that sit in the cab and two in the open bed. They’re jovial and relaxed—for all Castiel knows, this is a regular routine for them. The research Dean did certainly seems to fit that theory. They probably head into town, drink at one of the bars, stir up some trouble, and feed on whoever they’re able to grab on the go. Like takeout.

It makes sense they’d want to keep a living food source here, though. They’d have to be cautious around the townspeople, have to ensure that they didn’t take _too_ many humans or draw too much attention to their antics. With the would-be victim that got away still running free, low-profile would need to be the name of the game—at least for a while. People forget. Repression is survival, Castiel would know.

Now, as he watches the vampires pile into the truck, he supposes Dean got lucky, in that sense. The nest benefited from keeping him alive when Dean was essentially a drifter in town—unlikely to be missed, and a hunter at that. Without those extenuating circumstances, they almost certainly would have killed him outright. 

The pickup truck disappears in a cloud of dust and music that’s more screaming than intelligible words or harmony, and Castiel follows its tail lights with narrowed eyes. He waits for another few minutes, rubbing his stiff, gloved fingers together, deeply concerned that the light inside the cabin is still on. 

It’s not long before he gets the answer to that unasked question, when a shadow passes behind the windowpane. Somehow, Castiel thinks it’s incredibly unlikely that Dean is walking around freely in there, so he gears up for action. Hopefully, only one vampire has been left behind to guard the prisoner, but Castiel’s not counting his chickens. Either way, these are the lowest numbers he’s going to get, whatever they are—it’s now or never.

Extricating himself from the bushes, Castiel stays low to the ground as he scoots and slides his way down the sloping hillside. Every few feet, he stops to duck behind a tree and glance around, making sure the scenery hasn’t changed, that no new threat has appeared. By the time he reaches the bottom, he’s exhausted, but at least the foot that went numb while he was crouching in the brush is awake again.

He moves in, drawing the machete from its sheath.

The way the cabin is built, part of the house juts out past the porch. Castiel figures his best shot is to draw whoever is in there outside, keeping the upper hand for as long as possible. He hides just out of sight of the front door, back pressed against the crumbling log siding before bending down to pick up a rock. Rearing back, he slingshots it as hard as he can around the corner of the house and towards the front door. His aim is lucky, sending the rock crashing through the molding screen, echoing sharply as it bounces off of the floor inside. 

There’s a yelp, followed by a, “What the fuck?!” 

Only one voice—that’s promising. Once again holding his breath, Castiel flattens himself against the wall and waits. He’s not disappointed. 

A final emo-kid comes bursting out the front door, combat boots thudding furiously on the sagging steps. Castiel imagines his teeth are bared. “Whoever’s out here, you’re gonna regr—” 

Castiel never finds out what he’s supposed to regret, because he’s sliding the machete cleanly through the vampire’s thin neck, before he even has a chance to react. As the head and body fall separately to the ground—the head rolling lazily away down a natural path carved out by rain and drainage—Castiel lifts an eyebrow and shrugs. 

No one else comes chasing the decapitated monster out, but Castiel still approaches the front door with caution. He keeps to one side, crouching low and peeking around the frame carefully as the soft, rickety boards of the porch creak ominously beneath him. 

From his vantage point, Castiel can see that the cabin is only one large room, with what is presumably a bathroom to his right (the part of the building he was hiding in front of). Said room is in a state of complete disarray—trash and bottles everywhere, dirty mattresses scattered across the floor with equally disgusting blankets and pillows crumpled on top. The cabinets to what must have once been a kitchen are hanging precariously from their hinges, and the avocado fridge that hums in the corner looks straight out of 1972.

 _Everything_ is streaked haphazardly with blood. It’s graphic enough to make Castiel’s stomach turn, even with all the horrors he’s seen in his lifetime, the atrocities he’s committed himself.

But that’s nothing.

That’s _nothing_ compared to the sight that meets Castiel’s eyes when they adjust enough to make out the shadowed area at the far end of the room. There, a monstrous cast iron stove sits, sprouting an exhaust pipe that runs straight up through the ceiling. It’s bolted to the ground and there are a pair of shackles with one side secured to either handle on the stove.

With each wrist clamped tightly in the dangling end of one iron, his arms held up and apart so that all he can do is slump backward against the stove itself for relief, is Dean. 

Forgetting himself slightly, Castiel rushes forward, overcome with equal waves of relief and fear at the state of him. Dean doesn’t look good—he’s extremely pale, though he looks almost sweaty at the same time. Castiel’s fairly certain that is a terrible, terrible sign. At the very least, Dean has an oversized sweatshirt on—a purple monstrosity that features the letters “NYU” stamped huge across the front, and purple sweatpants to match. 

That’s bizarre, but it’s also a blessing—this room is barely warmer than the outside, it’s a miracle Dean isn’t frostbitten. Perhaps the past few days have been less cold up in these mountains than today. Either way, there’s zero chance Dean could have survived this long without clothing, and even with it, it’s very obvious to Castiel that he’s arrived barely in the nick of time. 

“Dean,” he hisses, too loud or maybe it doesn’t matter—that guy Castiel ended outside does seem to be the only one left behind. Makes sense, unfortunately—the way Dean is trussed up and weakened, it’s clear that he poses no threat. 

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, positively woeful as he sinks to his knees at Dean’s side. Even the floorboards are chilly, though Dean is positioned atop a folded blanket. Small mercies. Up close, Dean’s condition appears even worse—cuts, scrapes, and bruises are scattered all over his visible skin (presumably from the fight that brought him to his knees), and three scattered bite marks glare angrily back at Castiel from Dean’s dirty neck. 

That sight is concerning—only three bites after several days trapped with six vampires means many more must be hidden. Castiel dreads what Dean’s limbs will look like when he’s finally able to remove his clothing and check them. At this point, he can only hope none of the wounds are infected, or that any of Dean’s beautiful clusters of freckles have been destroyed. That possibility makes Castiel want to destroy things himself, very badly. 

Shuffling forward, he straddles Dean’s knee, right as a convulsing shiver rips through his limp body. That makes Castiel flinch, even as he reaches out and cups Dean’s cool, clammy face. Castiel’s seen both of the Winchesters gravely wounded countless times, but this is _bad._ They will truly be lucky if Dean is able to walk out of here on his own two feet.

“Oh, sweetheart. My brave boy,” he murmurs, unsure if Dean can even hear him. His hope sparks when between Castiel’s hands, Dean stirs, moaning low and pitiful. His several-day stubble is familiar and soft under the pads of Castiel’s fingers as he shifts. “I need you to wake up, Dean. We need to get out of here. Dean,” Castiel pleads. “Dean, love, please.”

But Dean remains unconscious and terrifyingly quiet, no sign that he’s even in there or able to respond. So Castiel does the only thing he can do—he gets to work. Shirking his pack, Castiel digs for the lock pick kit he knows is in there, yanking it out with a triumphant, “Aha!” 

Despite giving up hunting, Castiel’s continued polishing certain skills of his, and this is a prime example of why. One never knows when the ability to break themselves (or someone else) out of various restraints may come in handy. It takes him less than three minutes to have Dean freed from both of the thick, metal cuffs, and Castiel’s only regret is that Dean didn’t get to witness his new and improved finesse. 

As soon as there’s nothing holding them up, Dean’s arms—with equally bruised wrists—flop uselessly down to his sides. _Not good_. Things are feeling entirely urgent, and Dean still isn’t waking up. 

In a last-ditch effort, Castiel pulls out a bottle of water from his bag and cracks it open. Holding it to Dean’s mouth, he tilts the crackling plastic just slightly until a little bit of the water slides past his bone-dry lips. He holds his breath. Miraculously, for whatever reason, that trick works like magic—though Castiel isn’t keen on thinking too much about why. 

Greedily, Dean gulps at the bottle, sucking its contents down thirstily and carelessly so that the water runs down his face and neck in rivulets. The way it mixes with the streaks of dried blood on his skin turns those rivers red, and Castiel struggles not to get emotional. This is far from the time—he can cry all he wants about Dean’s close call once they’re both safe and sound somewhere far, far away from here. 

“Okay, alright, that’s enough,” Castiel says gently, pulling the bottle away when it’s nearly three-quarters empty. “You’ll make yourself sick.” To his relief, Dean’s beautiful green eyes blink hazily back at him, his expression filled with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, his voice rough and cracking—not surprising, considering. As Castiel starts to nod, though, Dean’s face hardens over and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Not real,” he mutters, ducking his chin down against his shirt to dry it, like he hasn’t yet realized that his hands are free. “You’re not...not real.”

Frowning, Castiel works a hand between Dean’s face and the shoulder where he’s tucked it, forcing him to sit upright. “Dean, I assure you, it’s me,” he implores. Dean’s eyes slit open again, the right one slightly puffy from a blow he must have taken to that side of his face. In seeing it, Castiel stifles a half-sob—while this isn’t about him, it’s so hard to swallow all of the extremely _human_ emotions he’s drowning in. “Oh, Dean, I am so very sorry I can’t heal you. I wish—I just wish that things were different.” 

Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it—Castiel is _distraught,_ guilty, but they don’t have time for that right now. 

“Is it really you?” Dean asks, skeptical. Castiel nods, threading fingers carefully through Dean’s bruised and sore ones, raising Dean’s right hand up to where he can see it easily. “Fuck,” Dean murmurs, letting his head drop back against the stove with a _thud_. “Fuck, Cas.” The pure relief in his voice is palpable now, full in a way that Castiel’s never heard from Dean before, at least not directed his way. Perhaps it was close, that time he came back from the Empty after Jack was born, but this—this is different. 

There’s a _lot_ Castiel wants to say. He wants to yell at Dean, to scold him, to bitch and complain and cry and scream and tell Dean how much he loves and needs him. To rant about how damn _angry_ he is that Dean keeps putting himself into these kinds of situations, how much he still _prays_ to empty skies that someday, Dean might choose to put himself and his own happiness first. 

But now is not the time. They need to move.

“Boots,” Dean grunts like a mindreader, nodding his chin across the room. Castiel’s eyes follow, finding Dean’s good hunting boots in a heap against the far wall. He rushes to retrieve them, shoving them onto Dean’s dirty-socked feet without hesitation and tying them up tight. That’s one problem solved.

“Keys,” Dean says, this time tipping his chin in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen. Pushed to the far end of what’s left of the countertop, Castiel spies some of Dean’s personal effects—wallet, keyring, cell phone. 

The sight of the phone lying there dark and useless, knowing that his angry words and resentment are locked away inside of it, sends a heavy wave of shame coursing through Castiel. For a second, he contemplates leaving it behind. In the end, he grabs everything and throws the lot in his pack—that’s not for him to decide. He can tell from the way Dean’s wallet was lying open that anything valuable was purloined, but if some credit cards are all they lose from this, Castiel will personally consider them damn lucky. 

“Can you stand?” Castiel asks. “If I—” He wraps himself around Dean’s torso, feels Dean’s arms wind weakly around his neck, hands shaking. “God, Dean,” he lets slip, feeling Dean huff an embarrassed laugh against his throat. 

“I know. Pretty pathetic.”

“That’s not it at all, I—Dammit, Dean,” Castiel swears, grunting as he heaves and lifts Dean to his feet. They struggle and nearly end up back on the ground, but with a little help from the stove, Dean eventually gets his feet under him and keeps them there. 

Even after he’s upright, Dean clings to Castiel, his eyes squeezing closed like he’s uncomfortable, or perhaps from his blood pressure dropping as he stood, causing him to black out slightly. In response, Castiel rearranges his grasp on Dean’s waist, tucks him into his body, and waits as Dean shakes his head to clear it.

“‘M good,” Dean says after a minute, blinking slowly before raising his eyes to meet Castiel’s. Dean’s hand makes its way to Cas’ shoulder and squeezes. Despite the exhaustion and pain in his expression, Dean grins charmingly, _disarmingly,_ and Castiel can’t help but smile back. “Man, it’s good to see you, sunshine. Gonna yell at me?” 

“Later,” Castiel promises, unable to stop himself from reaching up to drag a grateful hand down over Dean’s beaten face and jaw. He takes a moment— _just one moment—_ to close his eyes and press back tears, but then Dean’s leaning hard on him, unable to continue standing by himself. “Alright,” Castiel says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

Pulling Dean’s arm across his shoulders, he doesn’t miss the way Dean winces, but Castiel trusts Dean to speak out if he can’t handle something they're doing. It’s not possible right now to baby Dean’s every little ache and pain, much as Castiel might want to do exactly that. There will be plenty of time for such tenderness later—once they’re safe, and after Castiel follows through on his promise to complain his heart out about Dean’s shitty life choices. 

“Let’s get the _fuck_ out of here,” Dean agrees, his words coming out firm but still rough. His face is determined, but he looks incredibly woozy, and his feet alternate dragging behind when Castiel tries to move them both forward. All the more reason to use their time wisely and to high-tail it as far away from this place as possible while they still can.

“How long will they be gone?” 

“Dunno,” Dean replies, sucking in a breath as Castiel maneuvers them out onto the front porch and down the crumbling steps. “Depends. Hey, nice work, Van Helsing,” he adds when he notes the headless body lying in their path. Dean growls a little under his breath and goes out of his way to step on the back of the creature as they pass by, even though balancing to do so makes him that much more unsteady. 

“Dude was a special kind of douche,” is all he says.

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He just helps Dean hobble along towards the slope he slid down to get here and leaves him space to elaborate, if that's what Dean wants. He doesn’t, of course, which is typical Dean. On the other hand, Dean's also having a hell of a time just walking, so perhaps it’s simply that he doesn’t have the energy for both at the moment. 

Only a couple of yards up the slope, Dean has to pause to double over and wheeze, taking his arm away from Castiel’s shoulders to wrap it around his ribs. He keeps a hand on the ground to brace himself, and Castiel watches helplessly as it flexes in the weedy grass, fingers anxiously gripping for purchase. After a minute or so, Dean looks up, blinking wetly at the now fully-darkened sky, with all of its stars still coming out of the woodwork to light up the night. 

“They usually woke me up around dawn,” he says quietly. “Come back from the bars smelling like more piss’n’shit than usual.” Dean pauses, gives up on holding himself upright and falls onto his forearms, still on his knees. Next to him, Castiel tries to be patient and look like he’s listening intently, while also scanning the woods and listening for any sounds of an approaching engine. He puts a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, trying to leach some comfort into him, somehow.

“They, uh, they were partiers.” Dean keeps his head on the ground but gestures up and down his body weakly with one hand. “Got bites all over, they thought it was funny to mark me up. Always tried not to scream ‘cause, you know. They got off on that shit or whatever. Anyway.” Dean sniffs, drags his sleeve across his nose and shivers a little. “Just sayin’. Dawn. We probably got time.” 

“We can’t be sure,” Castiel replies hesitantly, curling the hand that’s resting on Dean’s back around his closest bicep. “Come, darling. We need to get you warm. As soon as we’re to the top of this hill, I’ll bundle you up.”

“Don’t need you to baby me,” Dean grumbles, even as Castiel yanks his arm back over his shoulders and half-drags Dean’s sore and struggling ass the rest of the way up the steep embankment. By the time they arrive at the top, the night has turned from twilight-dark to inky-black, and Castiel is sweating despite the chill. Both his and Dean’s breath puffs out of their lungs and into the freezing air like tiny vapor clouds, and Dean is shaking. 

For his part, Castiel is worried. Dean needs so many things right now, one as much as the next. Physical distance from the nightmare cabin and his captors, rest, medical attention, _food._ All Castiel can do is fall back on his soldier training: keep a clear mind and handle one problem at a time. First, it’s warmth. If he doesn’t help Dean preserve the body heat he has left, he won’t make it to the next step, literally. 

Somewhere near the same bush Castiel hid in earlier to stake out the cabin below, he lowers Dean to the ground and digs into his pack. Out comes a spare flannel and a sweater, for starters. “I’m going to pull your sweatshirt off for a second,” he says. “So you can put the flannel on. Then we’ll layer you up.” 

Silently, Dean nods, but averts his eyes as Castiel grabs the hem of the ugly purple monstrosity and lifts it over his head. Underneath, there’s a ratty white tee that Castiel is pretty sure was Dean’s to begin with, though it’s ripped in multiple places now, and streaked with both dirt and blood. That isn’t what makes Castiel’s breath catch in his throat, though. 

Dean was neither kidding nor exaggerating about the bites. They’re all over; up and down his arms and from what little Castiel can see, spotting his torso, too. 

“Everywhere,” Dean offers, answering the question Castiel is afraid to ask.

“They’ll heal,” Castiel replies firmly, once he regains his senses. He reaches out, grabbing Dean’s chin and forcing him to make eye contact. He waits for a moment, Dean blinking back at him from only inches away with damp, sad eyes in the dark. His hot breath contrasts starkly against the cold air on Castiel’s face. “Everything heals, given enough time.” 

Arching an eyebrow meaningfully, Castiel shoves Dean’s arms into the flannel one at a time, buttoning it up quickly. He pushes Dean’s hands into mittens before pulling the sweater over his head, to seal them at the cuffs. On top of those layers, he adds the “NYU” sweatshirt back, plus the scarf and the jacket off of his own body, which fits a little tightly but seems to make Dean relax into the fabric happily. 

To top the outfit off, he sticks a beanie on Dean’s head, one that matches his own, fraying at the edges where Castiel had trouble securing the ends of the yarn. 

“I dreamed about you, Cas,” Dean says softly, staring up at him, scared and sincere. “Every fuckin’... _daydream,_ hallucination, whatever—all about you. I missed...sleeping next to you, holding you. Missed _fighting_ with you—goddamn, I missed it all. The little things, the stupid stuff. Doing dishes and complaining about the trash you watch on Netflix. Cas, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” Dean’s eyes are wide and honest, and Castiel’s a sucker for him, truly.

“Tell me all about it when we’re safe,” Castiel says, once again yanking Dean to his feet, despite his groaning protest. “We need to move.” 

Stumbling through the root and brush-laden forest is twice as difficult in the dead of night as it was during the day, four times so while essentially carrying Dean’s weight, too. Even with the flashlight Castiel brought in his pack lighting the way, he can’t see more than five or so feet in front of them, and Dean is no good for keeping watch right now. He’s barely staying awake and vertical, hardly able to put one foot in front of the other, so it’s all down to Castiel.

Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves has Castiel running down worst-case scenarios. He’ll fight if he has to, of course, he will. To his last swing and his last breath, all to save Dean. But fighting in the dark (and protecting a Dean who _can’t_ fight at the same time) in this uneven, unfamiliar territory is definitely Plan Z. 

By Castiel’s estimation, they’ve been walking for over two hours when Dean really starts to fade. There’s just no way he’ll be able to make it the remainder of the distance to Rufus’ or Baby without some rest. Thanks to Dean’s extra-slow pace, they’re not even a quarter of the way yet. Not to mention, they’re still far too close to that shithole cabin for Castiel’s comfort. Especially considering they’re dealing with _vampires—_ Castiel has no idea how well the nest might be able to track Dean. Perhaps just by the faint blood trail, or maybe they’ve gotten to know his scent well enough that they can simply sniff _him_ out.

That’s not remotely comforting. If anything, it’s an inspiration to press on, but Dean’s body is increasingly heavy on his, Dean’s breathing all the more ragged and pained. As uneasy as he is with the idea, Castiel knows they have to stop. 

In the dark, without the sun to use as a guide, it’s harder for Castiel to navigate. At least the moon is high tonight, and Polaris is visible. Castiel uses them both to veer towards the start of the rock ridge that climbs into the mountain range to the north of Rufus’ cabin. It’s slightly out of their way on the path to safety, but it’s also the most likely place they’ll find defensible shelter. 

Soon enough, the trees begin to space out more and the ground becomes increasingly unpredictable. Less roots, more stone. That’s encouraging, and Castiel presses on, all but dragging Dean with him. Seemingly out of nowhere, a cliffside shoots up sharply in front of them, but that turns out to be a good thing. As Castiel squints into the dark, he picks out a break in the mountain’s craggy side, an opening. 

“Wait here,” Castiel instructs Dean, lowering him onto a flat-topped boulder and waiting until he’s sure that the slump of Dean’s shoulders isn’t anything worse than him catching his breath. When Dean snorts and holds up the “OK” sign, however limply, Castiel cups his cheek and then starts for the crack in the rock face. 

He slips inside easily, shining the flashlight quickly into every corner and crevice, machete at the ready for whatever he might find. Not that he’s expecting the supernatural, but maybe a bear or a mountain lion and honestly—Castiel’s exhausted, and he’s not sure who would win in that particular fight. Using the machete is a risk, but he can’t exactly shoot a gun into an echoing cavern, not with predators already potentially in hot pursuit.

Somehow—and prior to this past year, Castiel would easily have called it divine intervention, however _now? No—_ they seem to have happened upon their first actual, honest-to-goodness _break_. The cave is warm (well, warmer than its icy exterior, by at least twenty degrees), comparatively safe, and secure. High ceilings, maybe twenty feet up with a small opening at the very top that’ll allow him to build a small fire and ventilate it safely. Plus, the back wall of the cave is solid, absent of tunnels leading down into the earth where animals or _things_ could creep out unsuspectingly. 

There’s even a large rock near the entrance that Castiel is fairly certain he can move, closing the whole place off, for the most part. This is absolutely as good as it’s going to get. Leaving the flashlight on the floor, balanced and pointed up at the ceiling in a way that creates terribly creepy shadows, Castiel drops his pack and hurries outside to retrieve Dean.

“Took you long enough,” Dean barks, punctuating his complaint with a dry cough. 

“My apologies,” Castiel says, with a roll of his eyes. “I’m here now, your majesty.” 

“Damn right,” Dean replies cockily, but his grin is strained and his eyes are glazed. Castiel knows he’s suffering, wants to do whatever he can to help Dean _rest_ so that he can make it out of this godforsaken wood and to some _real_ help and medical care. “C’mon lover, I know you’re dying to get me undressed.” 

He is, however, still very much _Dean,_ through and through. Castiel’s never been more glad to see it.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Castiel scoffs, as he once again drapes Dean nearly completely over his shoulder, arm around his waist, and half-carries him inside. Once there, Castiel dumps Dean onto the ground perhaps a tiny bit less gently than he means to, but Dean isn’t the only one who is running on fumes and stiff from cold. 

Despite that, Castiel gets to work immediately once again. He runs back outside, _finally_ relieving his bladder before grabbing as many sticks and felled logs as he can find for kindling. He dumps the spoils at Dean’s feet before setting about moving the boulder. Castiel has to crouch and put his back into it, has to leverage his feet and his entire body weight against the cave wall to make it move, and part of him worries about his ability to move the giant rock away from the door again. 

A bigger part of him worries about setting a fire and suffocating him and Dean both, but the hole in the ceiling _should_ allow for the smoke to escape. If not, well, there are many “lesser of two evils” choices happening right now, with warmth and security pretty effectively trampling over everything else at the moment.

When the boulder is in place, only a couple feet of narrow space remain open at the top. Theoretically, the rock will block nearly all light from escaping more than a few feet away from the cliffside. The vamps would have to track them all the way here, would need to get within the cave’s sightline for them to be outed. 

It’ll have to do.

With Dean slouched feebly against the cave wall exactly where he was left, Castiel quickly builds a small fire using the scraps he collected. There’s starter material in Dean’s survival kit, plus matches, so at least he doesn’t have to rub two sticks together and pray. Once the flames are alive and flickering, the cave heats up fairly quickly. The stone walls are solid insulation, and with the cave opening sealed, it stays surprisingly warm and toasty in their little makeshift hovel. 

By some miracle, the hole in the ceiling functions just as Castiel hoped, funneling the smoke out easily and efficiently. For a moment, Castiel worries about that—the sight and the smell, it could easily tip off Dean’s captors. But it’s not yet close to dawn, so perhaps they haven’t even returned to the cabin to discover that he’s gone. With any luck, by the time they do, it’ll be too light out for the vampires to follow in their wake. 

All Castiel and Dean need to do is make it to daybreak. Then, they can safely continue moving through the wood. 

Just to be safe, though, once the cave is sufficiently warmed up, Castiel will put out the fire and they’ll huddle together with the residual heat. That should temper the risk of discovery, at least somewhat. For now, Castiel pulls the remaining clothing items and the blanket out of his pack and arranges them on the ground. Satisfied with the little nest, he settles the first-aid kit in his lap and turns his full attention on Dean. 

“Are you going to tell me where the worst injuries are or make me go looking?” 

To his credit, Dean quirks what Castiel is sure he thinks is a charming, flirty smile, but his exhaustion seeps through. He doesn’t so much as move a muscle from where he’s leaning against the stone, but he does sigh and blink for so long that Castiel wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

“Dean?” 

“Yeah,” Dean replies hoarsely, blinking wildly as he comes back to himself. “Uh, there’s one on my right forearm that’s pretty bad. And, same side, one on my inner thigh.” 

That’s troubling news. Castiel watches as Dean swallows heavily and keeps his eyes averted, once they’re open again. He scoots closer, placing a hand on Dean’s knee and squeezing lightly. Internally, Castiel wars with his potential reply—but he has to know if Dean is insinuating something more happened than just the blood-drinking. 

“Dean… they didn’t—”

“No,” Dean replies sharply, finally looking up and making eye contact. He sucks in a breath and shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “No, sorry, fuck. Didn’t mean to make it sound like—”

“I apologize for—”

“It wasn’t _not_ like that, though,” Dean adds quietly, and Castiel shuts his mouth. “You know? It was gross and _really_ fucking violating. Last time I got bit, way back when? It was...blurry. That dude wanted to turn me, maybe get a snack in the process. He didn’t mess around, didn’t draw it out. These vamps…” Dean trails off, staring into space like he’s remembering. A shiver ripples through his body, and Castiel doubts it’s from cold this time. “They were _partying._ Torturing me was a game, it was fun. So...no. They didn’t…” He coughs. “You know. Not like that, anyway. But I dunno, Cas. It was still a dude I didn’t want any part of in between my legs, sinking his teeth into my thigh.” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. Aside from being completely unprepared for Dean to open up like this, the only relevant life experience Castiel has to draw on doesn’t compare. There was that reaper, but Castiel only felt violated after the fact, once he learned who she really was. He keeps his hand where it is on Dean’s knee and meets his gaze without flinching, like he knows what the hell he’s doing. Like he can offer up anything at all that will make this better, when he knows perfectly well that he can’t. 

“Thank you for telling me that,” he says gently, but Dean just shrugs and colors a little.

“I’m not lookin’ for pity or whatever. You don’t even gotta reply. I just—Cas, I wasn’t kidding. While I was stuck in that place, all I thought about was you. You, and all the dumb shit I’ve put you through. All the ways I let you down.” Dean shifts, putting a hand down by his hip and trying to adjust the way that he’s sitting, grimacing as he does. Castiel leans in to help but Dean waves him off. “I promised myself,” he continues, breath coming a little heavy but gaze clear, “if I got out of there, I’d do better by you. I’d—I’d let you in, tell you the shit you deserve to know.” 

Cas’ lips part around a theoretical reply, but the words die in his throat when Dean’s eyes track swiftly down to them. It would be irresponsible to give in, Castiel knows that, and yet—

Before he even fully realizes what he’s doing, they’re kissing. Dean is boneless and weak beneath him, but even still, he’s enthusiastic with his mouth. As much as he can be, anyway. He might not be his normal, suave self, but the tiny moaning noises he’s making, like Castiel’s lips are a relief pressed against his, more than make up for anything else lacking. 

_God, Castiel loves him._

When they break for air, Castiel scarcely pulls back, leaving them to pant in each other’s faces, his palm hot on Dean’s cool cheek. “Let me patch you up,” Castiel says roughly. “It’s warm now, and it should stay fairly mild in here overnight. I’ll leave the fire burning while your clothes are off, of course, but we should hurry.” 

“Always trying to get me naked,” Dean says with a smirk, and Castiel responds by dragging a thumb over his lips, which Dean promptly bites teasingly. “I missed you.” 

“While I’m enjoying this unexpected change of heart immensely, next time let’s just yell at each other and one of us sleep on the couch instead of inviting near-death experiences in, shall we?” Castiel’s joking, but something behind Dean’s eyes darkens, and he looks ashamed. In truth, it’s a fair emotion that Dean probably deserves to feel, but circumstances considered, Castiel thinks Dean has suffered more than enough punishment for his transgressions. 

Neither of them ventures any further into that discussion. Dean simply moves on, attempting to untangle himself from all of his layers. “Let me,” Castiel offers, and Dean _must_ be tired and in pain, because he accepts the help without protest. 

It’s tough to ignore the way Dean struggles to so much as lift his arms, the way his face tightens and twists when he’s moved about. It’s likely that the bites aren’t the only injuries Dean is suffering from, and when Castiel has him down to his boxers and t-shirt, that suspicion is achingly confirmed. 

Dark, purpling bruises marr huge stretches of skin on Dean’s arms and legs, plus an extremely worrying one that stretches around his torso and up the left side of his lower back. With the edge of Dean’s shirt lifted just far enough to expose the area, Castiel lets his fingers trail gingerly over the blooming array of colors. 

“Dean,” he murmurs, doubting that he needs to elaborate—Dean knows, if the way he’s shifting uncomfortably under Castiel’s hands is any indication.

“I fought back hard,” Dean says with a dismissive shrug. “Every time.” 

“Of course you did,” Castiel replies warmly, letting the shirt drop and pressing his hand flat over Dean’s heart while he catches Dean’s eye. “I’m so proud of you for surviving.” 

Dean’s breath catches in his chest, in a way that Castiel can feel beneath his palm, but Dean just nods and closes his eyes. “Tired,” is all he says. 

“I know,” Castiel replies, busying himself with checking the worst of Dean’s wounds. Most of them aren’t overly serious; superficial or half-healed, but some are horrific. The bite on Dean’s inner thigh is more of a tear, and Castiel spends several minutes threading some rough sutures through the most jagged parts. Dean doesn’t say anything, clenching his eyes shut as Castiel works, but he's is fairly certain that gash in particular was opened more than once. 

He has the same feeling about the bite on Dean’s forearm, as both are starting to look infected. Red-ringed, green-scabbed, slightly swollen and tender—not encouraging signs. Luckily, the first-aid kit he brought is a Winchester one, and there are some expired antibiotics that Castiel gets Dean to swallow with some water. They’re better than nothing, but Castiel couldn’t even begin to give voice to the pure, unadulterated frustration he feels that he can do _nothing_ substantial to heal Dean’s broken body. 

If he still had his grace, they’d be in Baby’s front seat and on their way to meet Sam, Jody, and the girls right now. They’d be off to brainstorm a solution to the nest, instead of doing battlefield medicine in a damn _cave,_ wondering if they’ll survive the night. Instead of being useful, Castiel is this hapless version of what he once was—weak, and with nothing to offer Dean but cheap gauze and subpar pharmaceuticals. 

He works hard to not let Dean see his brewing resentment and irritation with himself, but Dean is busy coping with his pain and truly doesn’t seem to notice.

Once all of the major wounds have been cleaned, dabbed with antiseptic, and bandaged, Castiel redresses Dean in the same layers as before. He wrinkles his nose at the NYU sweatshirt, though. “What even is this outfit, anyway?”

“Easy access,” Dean grunts. “Pretty sure they just found it in the cabin, no one in that group is an NYU grad, that’s for damn sure. Anyway, one of ‘em stole my jeans. Lucky I was able to—” Dean cuts himself off and looks around shiftily, like he forgot where he was and who he was talking to. Curious, Castiel wants to press him, but Dean’s barely even awake at this point. That would be unfair.

So he lets the moment pass, unwrapping a protein bar and forcing Dean to eat at least half, while Dean complains the entire time. It’s endearing, and somewhat comforting. So long as Dean has enough energy to gripe and grumble, Castiel feels like he must be doing alright. The sooner they can get him to a hospital, the better, but things could be worse.

He chews the other half of the protein bar thoughtfully, watching Dean struggle to keep his eyes open. All the while, Dean's fingers pick restlessly at the edge of his sweatshirt. 

When they’re both done eating and Dean is bundled back up, Castiel moves to put out the fire. He sacrifices a bottle of water to ensure that it’s extinguished completely—wouldn’t do to wake up with their blanket and clothing ablaze. It’s only after he’s shaken out the last few drops onto the steaming pile and returned the empty to the bag that he realizes his mistake. That was the _last_ bottle of water, save for maybe half a cup in the bottom of the one Dean’s been sipping from. 

Fuck.

That’s bad, but it’s not the end of the world. They just have to start walking as soon as the sun is up, have to make it out of the woods before sundown. They can do that. They’re going to make it, and Castiel will not be entertaining any alternate theories.

Out of habit, Castiel checks his phone, but there’s still no service. Hasn’t been, if the total lack of messages or missed calls is any sort of clue. No possible way Sam hasn’t tried to contact him by now, yet there’s no sign of it. Castiel sighs and slips the device back into his pack without comment, even as Dean eyes him questioningly. 

Wrapping the blanket snugly around both of them, Castiel pulls Dean close, sitting upright and holding him tight to his chest so that Dean can enjoy the lion's share of the "nest". Dean protests, worrying out loud that Castiel won’t be comfortable resting that way and reluctant to let him try (in his words), “Just so that I can have a Cas-shaped pillow.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Castiel replies honestly. Surprisingly, (or maybe not, he’s been dead on his feet for hours), Dean gives up the ghost, settling into Cas’ side and closing his eyes without further complaint. “I have absolutely everything I could possibly need,” Castiel tells him anyway. “I’ve never been more comfortable in my entire life.” 

He knows that he should try and stay awake to stand watch, but Castiel hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and he’s dragging. Besides, the cave is blocked off, the fire is out, and Dean feels positively perfect in his arms. “I love you, sweetheart. Tomorrow, we’ll be somewhere safe. I promise you that, Dean.”

Dean has gone silent. For a moment, Castiel believes he’s fallen asleep. Just as he’s started to drift off himself, though, Dean speaks. “Don’t blame yourself for whatever comes next, Cas,” Dean mumbles. “It ain’t on you. None of this…” He trails off and sighs. “It’s all on me.” 

“Hush,” Castiel tells him. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better after some rest.” 

Dean grunts an inaudible reply, and Castiel just hopes that he’s right. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's going to happen??? And why tf is Fatback tagged?!?!? lol


	4. Wait For It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He holsters his gun, makes his way back to Dean’s side. Despite everything, both Castiel’s mood and his heart soften when he sees Dean’s face up close. It’s been over a decade, and Castiel will never, ever tire of looking at this man, of appreciating each curve of his delicate features. It’s tough to see him like this, when Castiel knows that he’s sick and hurting, but Dean still looks so sweet, so careless and tranquil while he dreams. 
> 
> It’s yet another reminder that they could _have_ that peace all of the time, if Dean would just let himself rest. If he would let all of this hero-complex history go and stop trying to heft the weight of the world onto his damn shoulders. There was a time that Castiel couldn’t have imagined holding the viewpoint that they’ve done enough—that he, in particular, deserves anything but endless atonement—but he’s not that person anymore. Arguably, he wasn’t a person at all back then. 
> 
> Now, though.
> 
> Castiel is so terribly human, and he _wants_. Looking down at Dean, the drive and resolution to not only keep him alive but to _keep him_ , period, has never been stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more beautiful art from @ladyrandombox in this chapter, please don't forget to give her all the love!!! 
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings (this is overtagging, but I'm doing it anyway): references to the Destiel breakup (Cas thinks about it), major character injury/illness, near-death experiences, feelings of hopelessness/could be interpreted by some as suicidal thoughts (it's due to Dean's serious condition). This chapter has a cliffhanger!

_I am the one thing in life I can control._

_I am inimitable, I am an original._

_I’m not falling behind or running late—_

_I’m not standing still, I’m lying in wait._

The fuzziness in Castiel’s head, the weight of lost sleep heavy on his eyelids, tells him he can’t have been out for too long. Blinking both _very_ reluctant, damp-lashed eyes open, Castiel’s initial instinct is to wonder why the hell he’s awake at all? He works to figure it out and—finding himself still completely exhausted—comes up blank, at first. 

Staring out into the cave, his blurry vision doesn’t clear or resolve into anything more than shadows. The darkness is full and thick in a way it never is inside of a house or a motel, or even in the depths of the Bunker (though the dungeon can be close, when it’s all sealed up). Something about _this_ darkness is much more threatening. To Castiel, it whispers.

_You are alone. No one is coming for you. No one can hear you scream._

If it weren’t for Dean, warm and solid in the circle of his arms, Castiel might even be afraid of this dark. Heaven knows, there’s enough hiding outside the door of their little haven, concealed and buried under the cloak of it to warrant such terror. Especially for a human. _Especially_ for two humans, one of them already sick and vulnerable.

But Dean picks that moment to shift against him, and Castiel is reminded of his responsibility to the man. There is no time, no _room_ for his own discomfort or fears, here. Castiel looks down, strokes a hand over Dean’s unsettled face, the lines on his forehead carved deeper than they usually are. Maybe he’s responding to Castiel’s own movement, since by the looks of it, neither of them have so much as quirked a muscle since falling asleep. Castiel’s left ass cheek is numb, prickly with that terrible pins and needles sensation he’s prone to—yet another _human_ norm he will likely never become accustomed to. 

Snug against him, Dean just snuffles, snores a little, and quiets down again, this time with his head in Castiel’s lap. The way he’s curled up can’t be particularly comfortable, but whether it’s his exhaustion or his injured state driving him, Dean doesn’t seem bothered in the least. 

Castiel’s _just_ about to lean back against the cave wall and try to steal a few more hours of sleep himself, when he hears it.

_Laughter._

The sound sends creeping chills down his spine, makes his body tense in a way that has Dean grumbling and yanking at his thigh, probably annoyed that his pillow has become less soft and welcoming. 

_“Shh,”_ Castiel murmurs instinctually, but Dean doesn’t wake further, doesn’t continue to stir or say anything intelligible at all. Castiel swallows heavily, straining to listen. The laughter was distant—just barely close enough for him to hear, if he had to make a guess, but Castiel supposes that’s likely the point.

These vampires aren’t afraid of them. Castiel and Dean—they are _prey,_ and this is a hunt. The lion does not fear the antelope, wouldn’t even think to consider it. His mouth dry and his tongue thick within its confines, Castiel fights to control his breathing, to keep the in-and-out flow of it slow and deep and steady. Humans panic, this is a given, but panicking leads to mistakes, leads to death. 

Castiel will _not_ panic, but he will pray—even if no one is listening.

 _Jack._ There’s still Jack. Castiel nearly forgot with everything that’s transpired, but as soon as he remembers, he’s closing his eyes and speaking to his deity of a son with fervor. 

_Jack please,_ he begs, pouring all of his desperation and emotion into the prayer inside his head. “Please help us,” he whispers out loud.

More laughter filters through the slim opening above the boulder, wafting in on the wind almost carelessly. Castiel’s head snaps to the side, glaring at the crack as if leaving it bared was the single greatest mistake of his entire existence. _Something always goes wrong,_ he’d once told Dean, and Castiel has to really fight to repress the sour memory of what came next, because this is _not_ the time. 

_Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?_

_You used to trust me._

There’s nothing he can do about the opening now. There are no other rocks inside the cave with which to close it up, and using their clothing would be like shooting off a flare-gun to a vampire in pursuit of Dean’s scent. 

The laughter echoes, creeping closer. Individual voices can be distinguished—although barely—each one of them just as Castiel remembers from when they tumbled out of that dilapidated cabin, headed for the bar. Raucous, amused, carefree in an almost naive sort of way. _Kids._ Frat boys, only truly interested in their own good time. In sowing chaos and being agents of destruction. 

Monsters, of the very worst kind.

Castiel tries to make a plan—he’s still strapped, his machete digging into his side and all of his guns still fully loaded with one in the chamber. Bullets may not kill these monsters, but they will slow them down. If the vamps get any closer, if being discovered becomes an inevitability, Castiel will aim through that crack and shoot anything that gets within ten feet of the cave’s opening. 

Who knows, maybe he can take out some eyes, make it harder for these poor imitations of Vlad the Impaler to swarm them. If he does enough damage, in theory, he could even win, could still protect Dean and get him out of here alive.

_I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you._

Castiel huffs a sad little laugh and looks down at Dean sleeping peacefully in his lap. A lock of Dean’s dirty hair falls limply across his forehead, and Castiel brushes it away with the tips of his fingers. Tears well up in his eyes as the voices get louder, but Dean just sleeps on. Blinking his vision clear, Castiel shakes his head and steadies himself with a deep breath. 

Carefully, he slips out from under Dean, skillfully sliding a pile of clothing under Dean’s battered face in his wake. In response, Dean grumbles a little, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Before Castiel stands, he leans down to press a soft kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Sleep. I’ll protect you,” he whispers, knowing even as he says so that it’s a promise he may not be able to keep.

_Why does that something always seem to be you?_

Approaching the boulder and the crack above it feels like walking the Green Mile, and Castiel is abruptly resentful of the pop culture knowledge that’s been shoe-horned into his head. It often pops up like this, incongruous and out of sync with his own organic thoughts, yet somehow understood by his brain all the same. Dean, naturally, appreciates his quips and the times Castiel laughs at his own silly jokes, but Castiel frequently wishes he could simply siphon the artificial knowledge out from whence it came.

That probably has much more to do with his desire to build a _real_ human life, with _real_ experiences to draw from and make jokes about, to be fair. Castiel wants to listen to every music album, read every book, watch every movie—preferably with Dean by his side—for the first time and not already know what happens simply because Metatron decided that he should. 

He thinks about that now, how silly his wish is, in this current context. It’s unlikely that he and Dean are even going to live through the night, never mind make it out of this forest in one piece. Whether the memories he dies with are hard-won or artificially inserted ranks fairly low on the list of things Castiel should probably be concerned with right now. 

Castiel steels himself. He draws his pistol and stands on his tiptoes to peek over the boulder and out into the rocky, tree-dense forest beyond. From here, Castiel can discern that it’s later than he thought, closer to daybreak than midnight. The first rays of dawn are beginning to pierce the sky, pink and orange streaks pushing bright through the interminable dark. Even still, the canopy cover is thick enough here that the colors barely penetrate.

Despite that, Castiel can make out some kind of movement, can hear the sing-song teasing of voices not very far away. 

They stop, though, and don’t come any closer. Castiel waits, his brow furrowed and his ear cocked in their direction, when suddenly, there’s a _flurry_ of activity. Something _bursts_ from the bushes, shadowy and small, nothing like a human (or a vampire, for that matter). It rips around the thicket, darting around trees and—Castiel has to rub his eyes and shake his head because _surely_ he is imagining things— _oinking?_

What can only be described as a delighted uproar explodes from the group of vampires and without any sort of hesitation, their mostly-formless shades turn around and retreat. Castiel can hardly believe it—as the shadowy, maybe-pig disappears into the brush, they’re all clamoring after it, whooping and hollering loudly as they go. 

Of course, Castiel knows better than to assume they’ve _all_ gone or that they won’t return, so he maintains his post with shaking hands until the sun has fully risen in the sky. All that time, standing with his feet planted and his fingers wrapped around his gun, palms and brow moist despite the chill in the air. After all, most of the heat from their fire has long since dissipated, sapped out by cold stone and mountainous fall air. 

Dean sleeps on, peacefully oblivious. 

That continues until the entire breadth of the scenery Castiel can clock from his vantage point is sun-dappled and bright. Even then, he can’t even bring himself to look away. In some ways, this is nothing. Both he and Dean have been trapped in far more dire, more hopeless and threatening situations, where the only light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be an oncoming train. 

And yet, somehow, this feels unprecedented. Perhaps it’s because there is so much _more_ at stake today than ever before. Castiel’s had a taste now, a brief sampling of what life _could_ be like, leaving hunting behind and with Dean by his side. Just a taste, certainly, but it’s enough to turn him into a full-blown addict, desperate for a bigger fix of normalcy and whatever the “white picket fence” ending translates to for a former Angel of the Lord and the man he pulled from the depths of Hell. 

It’s also making him weak. 

_Before,_ as an angel, of course Castiel had cared for Dean (and Sam). He’d worried, he’d stressed over their well-being, he’d thrown himself into harm’s way countless times to save the Winchesters (or to save the Winchesters from having to do so). But he’d always had his grace, always been able to heal Dean when healing was needed, always had something _bigger_ to contribute to a fight.

Now, Castiel is just a lowly human with shaking hands and exhausted eyes. Now, his ultra- _human_ love and driving desperation to protect Dean at all costs has become his greatest weakness, clouding his ability to make the difficult battlefield decisions he was once so very good at executing. 

And he doesn’t _want_ any of this any longer. Doesn’t want to be stuck in this cold, damp cave with Dean shivering and— _fuck—dying_ from completely preventable injuries. Doesn’t want to think about the hard-won love of his life curled up on the unforgiving dirt and stone while Castiel holds position and prays to Jack that he won’t be forced to take on five vampires by himself. 

This time, when tears well up in his eyes, it’s not for Dean. It’s out of pure frustration and resentment that they’re _here,_ again, when they’ve both been gifted a second ( _thousandth)_ chance and this was all supposed to be in their past.

There is no time for a breakdown, though, Castiel knows that. The distance they still have to travel and Dean’s increasingly poor condition are a horrific recipe for disaster, and Castiel is painfully aware that they need every ounce of daylight they can steal. The vamps may not have even headed back home—it’s possible they’re holed up nearby, biding their time until dusk. As Castiel noted yesterday with great trepidation, the forest will be dark enough for them to stroll through safely long before the sun has actually gone down. 

All of that means that there isn’t a moment to waste. 

He holsters his gun, makes his way back to Dean’s side. Despite everything, both Castiel’s mood and his heart soften when he sees Dean’s face up close. It’s been over a decade, and Castiel will never, _ever_ tire of looking at this man, of appreciating each curve of his delicate features. It’s tough to see him like this, when Castiel knows that he’s sick and hurting, but Dean still looks so sweet, so careless and tranquil while he dreams. 

It’s yet another reminder that they could _have_ that peace all of the time, if Dean would just _let_ himself rest. If he would let all of this hero-complex history _go_ and stop trying to heft the weight of the world onto his damn shoulders _._ There was a time that Castiel couldn’t have imagined holding the viewpoint that they’ve done enough—that he, in particular, deserves anything but endless atonement—but he’s not that person anymore. Arguably, he wasn’t a person at all back then. 

Now, though.

Castiel is so terribly human, and he _wants._ Looking down at Dean, the drive and resolution to not only keep him alive but to _keep him,_ period, has never been stronger. 

If he wants to do that, he’ll have to get Dean out of here, first. 

He reaches down to wake the sleeping hunter but then thinks better of it, drawing his hand back and tapping his lips. Instead of rousing Dean, Castiel returns to the entrance of the cave and sets about moving the boulder. He checks their immediate surroundings once again—just in case—but there’s nothing out there save for a lone little yellow warbler, hopping about on the flat top of a large rock several feet away. 

Watching the creature for a moment, Castiel smiles to himself. Not that he believes anything in this world is governed by fate or destiny anymore, but the fluffy yellow bird’s presence still feels like a sign. Considering what some believe the yellow warbler symbolizes*, perhaps it is. 

Remembering himself and his mission, Castiel snaps back to attention and gets down to business. It takes him the estimation of ten minutes (and a possible hiatal hernia) to move the boulder back using the same feet-on-wall technique as the previous night. By the time he’s done, he’s gasping and sore, furiously cursing the limits of his mortal body under his breath.

Which would undoubtedly leave him in a terribly sour mood, if it didn’t also make Dean _laugh._ At the sound of it, weak and quiet as it is, the whole of Castiel’s attention snaps to him immediately. Worries and aches temporarily forgotten, Castiel can’t help but smile ruefully when he sees Dean grinning at him, still curled up rather pitifully on the ground. 

As Castiel drops to his knees at Dean’s side, leaning down to brush a kiss across his forehead, he notices several things. One, that Dean is almost ghostly pale in the tepid morning light. Their adrenaline-fueled reunion and subsequent fleeing combined with a lack of any real illumination save for the glow of the campfire did a hell of a job masking that, but now it’s all too clear. 

Two, Dean looks far worse, in general, than Castiel realized. Dark bruises under his eyes and a tightness at the corners of them give away his discomfort, even as he tries his best to tease. Regardless of his humor, Dean’s expression is pinched and wan, and he doesn’t even try to sit up.

And three: after all this time, Dean should need to urinate so badly that it’s uncomfortable. Yet, he doesn’t make mention of any such issue, which is incredibly concerning. His body is shutting down.

Castiel gets them moving as quickly as possible, which is not very at all. Once Dean is sitting up (wincing and unhappy about it), Castiel practically force-feeds him another half of a protein bar and the rest of the water. He doesn’t tell Dean that their supplies are dangerously low—there’s no need to burden him with that knowledge—but he does impress upon him the importance of reaching their destination by twilight. 

“Fuck, Cas, I know,” Dean grumbles, but he softens when Castiel shifts away from him, annoyed. “Don’t—don’t go. Just, c’mon, man. Take it down a notch. You bitchin’ at me to pick up the pace ain’t helping any. I’m not walkin’ like a geriatric turtle ‘cause I think it’s a rollicking good time, cupcake.”

“I know that, Dean,” Castiel replies impatiently, setting about shoving their clothes and blanket back into his pack. “I’m simply—”

“Dude, I get it,” Dean interjects, batting the water bottle away as Castiel tries to encourage him to swallow the last few drops. “Trust that no one wants us out of here more than me.” He stops and sighs, ducking his head before reluctantly accepting the container Castiel is still waving in front of his face. Under unrelenting scrutiny and to Castiel’s satisfaction, Dean finally tips the last of the water down his throat. “If anything happens to you—”

“It won’t.” Castiel cuts him off firmly. He tucks the bottle away, in the hopes that they’ll come across a natural source he can glean a refill from. “It won’t, because we’re leaving and we’ll be at Rufus’ by nightfall. Baby is waiting for us there. I’ll drive you to a hospital, and—”

“ _I’ll_ drive,” Dean chimes in meaningfully, looking like he can barely keep himself upright just sitting there doing nothing. “Nobody drives my Baby but me.” 

“Whatever you say, darling,” Castiel deadpans, sliding the pack over his shoulders and his arms under Dean’s to lift him up. “On three.” 

Their hike through the forest isn’t any faster going than yesterday. In fact, Castiel is certain it’s slower. Not for any lack of effort on Dean’s part—the man is determined, but he’s simply not up to the demands of the hike. His body is damaged and struggling, no matter how hard he strives to pretend that isn’t the case. It’s a true testament to Dean’s strength that he’s up and moving at all; Castiel is beyond certain in his belief that any other mortal man (himself included) would not be. 

All of the fights over all of the years where Dean has had to pick himself up and _keep going, keep going,_ regardless of what he’s recently lost or how badly he’s hurt have brought this to fruition. Poor Dean has _never_ had a real break—first because of Chuck and then because of his own hangups. He’s always just forced himself to slap a bandaid over a bullet hole, to shake it off and get back out there. 

That might be serving him well as far as keeping him upright and walking, but it breaks Castiel’s heart. For the first time, it occurs to him that Dean may not know _how_ to stop, not when _keep going, keep going_ is all he’s ever known. 

_When_ they make it out of here, Castiel vows to teach him. Enough of the bickering and going off to their separate corners when they don’t agree—Dean needs help. He needs an intervention, and Castiel _needs_ him to accept it when one is offered. 

Castiel needs him home, but he also needs to help Dean figure out what it’s going to take to be _happy_ there. 

There’s no discernible footpath through the undergrowth, just as it was while Castiel was hiking out here. He and Dean are also not directly retracing his own steps—thanks to their detour for shelter—so they aren’t even able to take advantage of the swaths of brush Castiel cut away with his machete. As they get closer to their destination, that should change, but for now, they’re forging their own way.

For his own part, Castiel is exhausted, and struggling to navigate correctly. His skills are dependent on accessing memories and space/time awareness that’s celestial in origin. As such, the information is not nearly as effortless to interpret when he’s tired and worn down, in this all-too-human form. Castiel’s brain feels fuzzy, and while he knows that he’s keeping the sun generally in the right place above their heads as they walk, it’s not exactly easy to tell. 

There’s also the fact that there is an animal out here, following them. It’s not very big (from the vague glimpses of grey fur Castiel has caught) and doesn’t seem outright dangerous, but it’s definitely on their tail. Whenever Castiel hears it rustling in the bushes, he quickly navigates a bit in the other direction. Strangely, each time he does so, the interruption in his mindless “one-step-two-step” rhythm forward alerts him to the fact that he has, indeed, gone somewhat off-path.

_Very strange._

Castiel doesn’t have the energy or bandwidth to focus on it, though.

Dean leans more and more heavily on his shoulder as time goes on. It can’t be much past noon (and with several miles to go) when Castiel has to sit them both down for a break that’s more than leaning against a convenient tree for a few minutes. He’s hesitant to do so, worrying that if Dean sits down, he may not get up again, but his own back is on _fire_ with the stress of Dean’s weight on it. If he doesn’t rest, Castiel won’t be able to keep that up for much longer. 

Human bodies are beautiful, incredible things, and so frustratingly fragile Castiel could scream. 

Despite the fact that he’s sitting, Dean is still panting, breath coming short and chin tilted up like he can’t quite get enough air, even as he gulps it down. His hair and collar are damp with sweat that’s undeterred by the piercing cold, and his eyes look glassy. He’s positioned with his back to a tree on what Castiel (in his sleep-deprived, dehydrated state) thinks looks like a positively enticing patch of moss, but Dean doesn’t even seem to notice his surroundings at this point.

The way his tilted head lolls against the scratchy bark of the tree is listless and terrifying, as out of character for Dean as it is. There is no sign of his persistent sass and insolence, and Castiel feels as if he’s watching the last of Dean’s will to _keep going, keep going_ drain from his body, right in front of his eyes. 

He’s never felt more goddamn helpless, _useless._

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, blinking back tears that he knows Dean will _hate_ directed his way as he sits down on the moss next to him. Reaching out to cup Dean’s jaw, Castiel leans in and brushes their lips together softly. It’s barely even a press, but he needs it, needs to feel Dean alive and real and _with_ him.

_By the Heavens, they’ve wasted so much time._

“Cas,” Dean croaks, and Castiel notices with anxiety that his lips are dry and cracked, sticking together as they part around his words. Dean is in serious trouble, and Castiel again silently prays to Jack, to no apparent avail. “No more water?”

Castiel shakes his head sadly, letting his hand find Dean’s where it lays limply on his thigh. He traces the outline of Dean’s bruised fingers, rubs the soft space next to his thumb with great affection. “We are out, unfortunately. There’s plenty more in the car,” he adds hopefully, trying to encourage Dean with what little ammunition he has left to do so. 

Dean huffs a strained laugh. “Fuck, Cas,” he murmurs, struggling to sit up a little straighter. He’s quiet for a moment, looking down at their joined hands and watching Castiel’s ministrations with a fond, if sad, smile on his face. “We both know I’m not gonna make it that far,” he says quietly. 

On some level, Castiel expected this, and he’s right there with a protest that Dean’s scoffing at and waving away before it can even finish leaving his lips. “Dean, don’t—”

“It’s done, Cas,” Dean says with a shrug. It—like all of his motions and gestures and usual mannerisms—is smaller, quieter, subdued. He might barely be speaking, but to Castiel, Dean’s never been so loud. 

“You are not giving up,” Castiel growls, suddenly furious. He gets up on his knees and grabs Dean by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “You—I did not come all the way here to pull you out of Hell for a _second time_ just for you to _give up on me._ Do you hear me?” 

Wordlessly, Dean just blinks up at him sadly, like Castiel is a toddler who simply does not understand the way that the world works. Except, Castiel understands all too well, and the _most_ important thing he’s learned— _from Dean—_ is that you manifest what you _accept,_ and in no universe does he accept _this._ He’ll carry that for both of them, if he has to.

“You do not die here, Dean,” Castiel says forcefully. “This is not your fate. You— _we_ are not done. _I_ am not done with you. Now, we are going to get up. We are going to keep walking. We are going to go home and—and get jobs. We are going to garden and clean the bunker and try TikTok recipes, whatever those are. We’re going to live like _people,_ Dean, not soldiers. You’ll learn to sit still and my hair will go grey and the two of us die _together,_ of old age, safe and warm in our bed.” 

Close to losing it, Castiel grits his teeth and holds Dean’s eye contact fiercely, like that changes anything. “You do not die here. Not here, not tonight.”

“Cas,” Dean says patiently, like _Castiel_ is the unreasonable one in this mess. He reaches up with what has to be Herculean strength for his current state and threads his fingers into the hair at the back of Castiel’s head. Tugging, he brings their foreheads together with an impact that stings a little, though Dean doesn’t flinch. Castiel swallows hard as Dean’s eyes squeeze tight for a protracted moment. 

“Dean,” he says petulantly, not giving an inch, but not pulling away either.

When Dean’s eyes open, they’re shiny and bright. “Cas, baby, I love you,” he murmurs. His voice is gentle but so laden down with emotion and regret that it’s immediately obvious what Dean is doing. _Saying goodbye._ “I love you _so_ goddamn much. And you _have_ to get out of here.”

“No,” Castiel replies, shaking his head. “Not without you.” 

“I’m not going to make it, Cas,” Dean continues, like Castiel hasn’t said anything at all, and he’s becoming more insistent as he talks. “We both know that. If you stick around trying to drag my dead-weight ass along, come nightfall—maybe sooner—we’re both dead for real.” Dean gestures weakly to the forest around them. “I’m the one who fucked up, sweetheart. I won’t—I _can’t_ have you dying because of it.” 

Grabbing the collar of Castiel’s shirt, Dean looks up imploringly, eyes wide and pleading. “Cas, don’t make me watch you die. If you stay, my last moments on this earth are gonna be spent hating myself for getting you killed.”

“You idiot,” Castiel growls. “You self-sacrificing, pig-headed, _selfish—_ what in Jack’s name are you doing?” As frustrated as he is, Castiel can’t be expected to continue a dramatic rant about Dean’s idiotic choices and expectations when he isn’t even listening. Somewhere around his second word in, Dean dropped his hand and began digging around the inside of his boot, the way one might if they were trying to remove some bit of debris lodged inside. _“Dean.”_

“Just—hold on, would you?” Dean glares up at him, exasperated, while Castiel looks on incredulously. He bites his lip in concentration, fumbling fingers picking at the leather seam where he has the edge of his boot turned down. 

“Dean—”

“Argh,” Dean grunts, clearly annoyed, as whatever he’s trying to extract slips through his clumsy fingers repeatedly. Castiel sighs in annoyance but waits, now curious about what this is all about. Finally, Dean appears to grab hold of something, working it through and out from where it’s apparently been tucked between the leather lining and the exterior of the shoe. A seam has been picked free, thread fraying around Dean’s fingers as he pulls out—

A ring. A simple, white-gold ring that immediately catches on a singular ray of sunlight poking through the canopy. Dean holds it up, staring at Castiel expectantly like he should be reacting with more— _something_ , but Castiel is completely failing to connect the dots. 

He blinks back at Dean in confusion. “I don’t understand,” is all he says, and Dean huffs. 

“I’ve had this,” Dean tells him, flipping the ring around and over his fingers. His verdant eyes flicker from the metal over to Castiel’s face. “Just so we’re clear. I’ve had this for a while. Managed to hide it before the vamps took my clothes, but that’s not—” He sighs and shakes his head. “I had it. I just—Cas, I’m _not_ good at this shit.” 

Castiel’s knees are getting sore and absolutely _nothing_ is clear to him at this point, except that they are wasting time and Dean is still trying to convince him to abandon him to the wolves. “I don’t—”

“Cas,” Dean says, and now his tone is back to urgent, with a hint of sadness. He leans forward, grabs Castiel’s hands, and brings them to his mouth, brushing lips over knuckles with a sweet softness that Dean is frequently lacking. Dean pauses with his head bowed, a broken little noise escaping from the back of his throat, and now Castiel is becoming a lot less angry and a lot more frightened.

When Dean looks up, his eyes are full and one tear is already tracking down over his dirty, discolored cheekbone. “Cas, you gotta go, sweetheart. Shit, Cas, I’m dying already. Vision is blurry and I’m almost passing out every time I try and sit up. You go, and you take this with you, and you remember me. I would have married you, Cas,” Dean adds quietly, the words almost getting lost in his throat. 

“ _What?”_

“I _wanted_ to marry you,” he adds, a little more confidently this time. He squeezes Castiel’s hands and presses them to his eyes. “‘M so sorry I was an idiot, Cas. Sorry I was a chickenshit bastard. I’m sorry we didn’t get to—”

Castiel’s blood pressure shoots through the roof, and he sees red. “No,” he growls. “Are you _insane?_ This is _bullshit._ Of all the—”

Without further hesitation, Castiel gets to his feet and yanks Dean up with him, a sudden wave of adrenaline fueling his waning strength and energy. While Dean yelps and protests, his eyes rolling back in his head for a moment as he goes vertical, Castiel ignores him completely. He ducks down once Dean is upright, grabbing him around one thigh and tossing him over his shoulders into a firefighter’s carry.

Dean is _goddamn_ heavy, but Castiel is _furious,_ and determined, and that helps. 

“Of all the things you’ve done to me, Dean Winchester,” Castiel grumbles as he sets off through the thick underbrush. Roots are everywhere, trying their best to trip him and send them both sprawling, but he persists. “ _This_ is the worst. You do not get to offer me commitment only when there’s no risk of having to carry it out.”

Slung around his neck, Dean is still mumbling and complaining and begging Castiel to go on without him, with no success. “Please, Cas,” he murmurs somewhere near his ear. “Just take the ring, I’m—I’m gonna pass out.” Dean’s voice is rough and frail, and Castiel believes him, so he tucks the little metal band into his jeans’ pocket without looking at it too closely. It isn’t that he doesn’t want it—quite the contrary—it’s that he wants it more than _anything,_ just not like _this._

“I am so angry with you,” Castiel mutters, but this time, Dean doesn’t answer. Already struggling to put one foot in front of the other with Dean’s full weight on his exhausted shoulders, Castiel forces himself to pretend that it’s because Dean is being difficult. It doesn’t matter—there’s nothing he can do but continue to try, to keep going, to save Dean Winchester one last time.

Castiel’s never regretted the loss of his grace before now. He has been content, _happy,_ peaceful about every decision he’s made. He’s been ready. But now—his inability to heal Dean, to fly or at least _carry_ him out of here—it’s unforgivable. What use is he like this? What _good_ is he to anyone? To Dean, to the world, when he can’t fight or even protect the person he cares about most in it? 

Despite everything, Castiel soldiers on. He’s sweating, he’s panting, and every single one of his joints strains and screams with the effort it takes to do so. He _aches_ deeply, feels like his entire body is both numb and on fire at the same time. His head spins, the treeline tilts, and Castiel doesn’t even realize that he’s going down until his knees are hitting the forest floor. 

“No,” he whispers, as the darkness closes in. With his last few conscious moments, Castiel manages to get Dean safely to the ground and to lay down beside him. He’s _alive,_ Castiel can see Dean’s chest rising and falling as he collapses at his side. Dean’s eyes are closed, and Castiel’s are heavy, the edges of his vision fuzzy and refusing to resolve, no matter how many times he blinks. 

With a final sob, Castiel’s body gives out, and he lands face-to-face with the love of his life—his entire existence—only inches away and yet too far to force his failing body to reach out and touch. “Not like this,” Castiel breathes, fighting to hold onto the sight of Dean’s handsome, peaceful face as his senses all shut down. “ _Dean._ ” Dean’s breath puffs warm on his lips, and that hurts Castiel more than anything else, knowing that Dean still had a chance and _he_ failed them both. 

_Jack,_ he prays, as his eyes flutter and refuse to open another time. _Jack, where are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Yellow Warblers: "The wholeness of self is embodied in Yellow Warblers. Their aspect of light is the joy They bring to us. Their shadow self is how They sneak off like thieves to steal from others. We accept Yellow Warblers in their entirety, both their good and bad. “Embrace all of you,” urge these Wild Canaries, “and become whole”. Do not deny either part of yourself." //  
> Warbler's Wisdom Includes:  
> -Diversity  
> -Beauty of all soul songs  
> -Invisibility  
> -Frail endurance  
> -Survival  
> -Endurance/moving in the direction you need to go.  
> [source](http://naturemeanings.blogspot.com/2010/07/yellow-warbler-wholeness-of-self.html#:~:text=The%20wholeness%20of%20self%20is,both%20their%20good%20and%20bad.) //[source](https://evolvewithin.ca/blogs/animal-spirit-guide/warbler)
> 
> Wonder where that little guy came from? 🤔


	5. Raising the Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The world comes rushing back in a furious blur of flashing lights and sound, leaving Dean gasping and blinking with stinging, watering eyes. The harsh haze of a fluorescent bulb hanging directly over his head makes it impossible to force his eyes to focus on anything else._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Ladyrandombox herself appears in this chapter ;) Look out for her! Along with, um, another long-awaited cameo, lol. *cough* _Fatback_ *cough*
> 
> Warnings for excessive adorable Cas and Jack interaction.

_Life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints,_

_it takes and it takes and it takes._

_And we keep living anyway—_

_we rise and we fall and we break, and we make our mistakes_.

_And if there's a reason I'm still alive_

_when so many have died,_

_I’m willing to wait for it._

The world comes rushing back in a furious blur of flashing lights and sound, leaving Dean gasping and blinking with stinging, watering eyes. The harsh haze of a fluorescent bulb hanging directly over his head makes it impossible to force his eyes to focus on anything else. 

“He’s good now,” a voice says from somewhere above him, possibly belonging to one of the vaguely human-shaped blue blobs drifting in and out of his peripheral vision. Dean blinks hard and tries to sit up, stopped instantly by a firm hand on his shoulder and the same voice, now cautioning. 

“Whoa, whoa there, tiger. Don’t get crazy on me just yet. You might have managed to tug that other foot back out of the grave, but you’re still in rough shape.” 

“Huh?” Dean manages, his voice cracking and sticking in his throat. He licks his lips but it doesn’t do much—his tongue is dry and rough, no use in moistening his mouth at all. By some miracle, the blue blob must understand this, since the head of Dean’s bed magically goes up and the edge of a cup appears at his lips. Dean closes his eyes and takes a sip, _bliss._

The water is freezing cold and soothing as it slides down his throat, and Dean actually hums a soft little noise in relief. “Thanks,” he mutters, even though the cup gets taken away _long_ before he would have considered himself done. 

“No problem, friend,” blue blob tells him, and Dean takes a moment to follow its movements. Allowing his bleary eyes to adjust turns the blob into something more respectably human; a short, white, female nurse in scrubs— _ah, that’s why all the blue_ —crimson hair with blond tips that falls at her shoulders. Hazel eyes smile kindly over at Dean as she taps away on a computer half-built into the wall. “You’re damn lucky, you know,” she says.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean struggles to grasp the memories that led up to him being here. It’s all kind of fuzzy and out of his reach, essentially just a blur of blood, pain, and fear, plus some sort of confusing notion that he should _be_ somewhere, doing something important. No idea what that’s supposed to be. Dean reaches further into his mind, searching around but feeling the scraps of his memories slip through his fingers like morning mist. 

At first.

And then—

“Cas,” he gasps, abruptly throwing all of his own issues aside. “I’ve gotta—” 

Dean’s fast, swinging his legs swiftly over the side of the bed despite all the IV tubing and the wires he’s hooked up to. Unfortunately, his nurse is faster. Before Dean can so much as get his feet flat on the floor, there’s a small hand pushing his chest back and holding him there, even as Dean’s vision greys out at the edges from all the sudden effort. 

Chick is stronger than she looks, or maybe Dean’s just that pathetically worn-down. Instinctively, he grabs her wrist to steady himself, fingers closing around a cluster of bracelets. That includes some soft, red, white, and blue braided thing that he trains his eyes on in order to force them to behave and focus.

“Uh-huh,” the nurse says, unimpressed. “Dude, I told you. Chill out, you’re still hella sick.”

“Cas,” Dean croaks again, fitting the nurse with what he hopes is an impressive glare, but staying put all the same. Mostly because his arms are tingling wildly and he’s not entirely sure that he _could_ stand up if he tried, but it’s not as if he has to admit that _out loud_. 

“Your buddy is right next door,” the nurse says soothingly, coaxing him to pull his legs up again. Dean reluctantly complies. “With your—brother, right? Jimmy Page?” The nurse still has her fingertips on Dean’s chest warningly, but the side of her mouth quirks when Dean relaxes down into the shitty mattress and nods. “So, who are you supposed to be, then? Robert Plant?” 

“Probably,” Dean mutters, too exhausted for these games. If the hospital staff is onto their aliases, worst that’ll happens is they get the boot. _Whatever_ , Dean thinks. By the looks of things, he’s already a few solid hours into IV fluids, a blood transfusion, and antibiotics—that’s more than he usually gets in these situations. The fact that he’s conscious at all suggests that he’s more or less out of the woods. 

Hospital’s job is done, far as Dean is concerned.

“Relax,” the nurse admonishes lightly, moving away from him and returning to her typing with a knowing smile on her face. She looks friendly enough, but Dean’s got shit to do. “Not my business what you call yourselves, I really don’t care. I’m just here to make sure that you live through the night and that you don’t fall and break your head open while trying to take a piss. Knowing that, you got another name you’d prefer I call you? Doesn’t have to go on the paperwork.” 

Dean clears his throat and sighs. “Dean,” he admits, secretly appreciative of the out. “And my—my buddy. He’s okay?” 

The nurse opens her mouth to answer, and then seems to think better of it. She reaches over towards the rolling table positioned next to Dean’s bed where his battered cell phone is sitting plugged into a charger. “Dean, got it. I’m Lindsay, by the way. He’s fine, just recovering in a room down the hall. From what I heard, your brother and your other friends stumbled across the two of you just in the nick of time. And you, uh, got attacked by a wild animal while hiking? That’s the story we’re going with?” 

There’s a protracted pause in which Dean blinks innocently while offering no explanation, and eventually, the nurse sighs. She doesn’t press, though—just taps the shell of Dean’s phone with her index finger. “Look,” she says. “I’m sure I should stay out of this, but your brother was in here, listening to your messages. He was playing them on speaker while I was working you up.” 

“Uh, okay?” 

“Just listen,” the nurse insists. “I’d leave you to it, but I need to take your vitals in a minute, and—”

“It’s cool,” Dean reassures her awkwardly, wondering what could possibly be on his voicemail that’s so urgent a stranger—a _nurse—_ would want to make sure that he hears it. Regardless, she’s already listened to whatever it is once, _thanks, Sammy_. Also, judging by Dean’s undressed state, she’s seen him naked and unconscious. So, really, what’s a humiliating message or two between casual acquaintances after all that?

“Where is my brother, anyway?” Dean asks conversationally, as he slides a finger over his phone screen to unlock it, swiping down to bring up his voicemail screen.

“I’m sure he’ll be in,” the nurse replies vaguely, possibly intentionally avoiding eye contact as she types away at her keyboard. Dean just shrugs and presses “play” on the first message, leaving it on speaker so that Castiel’s voice fills the room. 

_“Dean, it’s me. If you’re going to be so terribly inconsiderate as to continue running off on unnecessary and dangerous hunts by your lonesome, you could at least have the decency to let me know that you’re safe.”_

Castiel pauses.

_“I’m still angry at you.”_

Stealing a glance at the nurse who is politely pretending that she can’t hear, Dean flushes. Having the errors of his ways laid out so plainly after everything he and Cas have been through over the past several days is humbling. Still, he isn’t sure why the nurse found this message _so_ important, but whatever, Dean’s glad he heard it.

He’s about to close out the voicemail app when it auto-switches to the next unplayed message, which Dean didn’t even notice was there. When he looks again, he realizes there are _several_ additional voicemails from Cas, all received on the same day, one right after the other. 

With increasing horror and shame, Dean listens to each, quietly and without comment. The tone of Cas’ voice changes slowly. It shifts from angry to worried, from frustrated to scared. By the tail end of the last message, Cas is essentially pleading with Dean to call him back, to be alive, to be _okay_ , and Dean feels like absolute shit about it.

 _“Dean, please. Sweetheart, I need you—I need you to call me back. I need you to be safe. Dean, this life is hard enough, I can’t—Dean, where are you? Please. Jack isn’t answering, and I—I’m so sorry, if I did something to drive you away, I—”_ There’s a prolonged silence, broken only by sniffling that’s badly muffled with static. Then that stops, and Castiel takes an audible deep breath before finishing up.

_“I love you, Dean. Call me back, please.”_

Stunned and almost completely lost in thought, Dean temporarily forgets that he isn't alone here. He jumps and his heart skips a beat when the nurse clears her throat. Dean looks up ruefully, opens his mouth to offer an explanation he doesn't have, but is relievedly saved by a sudden commotion in the hallway outside of his room. 

Distantly, a handful of indistinct voices can be heard arguing. Layered on top of that is what sounds like something metal going clattering to the floor, plus a bunch of beeping that escalates obnoxiously as Dean listens. He thinks he might be able to pick out Sam’s voice from the commotion, maybe even Cas’, but he’s not entirely sure.

Before he can wonder too much, though, Dean’s nurse moves to stick her head through the doorway. Immediately, she’s stumbling back into the room with her hands up, the upheaval from the hall following close behind. Despite the defensive posturing, the nurse looks seriously amused, and it’s not long before Dean finds out why. 

Bursting dramatically through the raggedy curtain covering the room’s entrance is a distraught-looking Castiel. His eyes are as wild as his hair and he looks like he hasn’t slept in ten years. On the other hand, he’s _alive_ and—well, in way better shape than Dean feels, by the looks of him—which is all that goddamn matters. 

The sight of him catches Dean off-guard, sends an avalanche of recent memories cascading through his head. The sound of Cas’ pleading voicemail echoes in Dean’s ears even as snatches of his own awful, embarrassing proposal flit across his mind. Unaware of Dean’s building inner turmoil, Castiel’s eyes lock fiercely with his from across the room. 

Meanwhile, the mental slideshow Dean’s watching ends with him losing consciousness as the ring falls from his numb fingers, the soundtrack of Castiel’s irritated grumbling accompanying its loss in the background. 

_He still looks mad as hell_ , Dean notes with trepidation. As he watches warily, Castiel’s half-tied gown slips down off of one shoulder while he staggers unsteadily forward. Cas shoves it back up, grunting in frustration, but doesn’t so much as hesitate in his trek towards Dean. He plops down on the side of Dean’s bed and scoops him up like he’s a weightless rag doll, damn near squeezing the life out of his battered body. It’s almost as if he’s worried that letting go might cause Dean to disappear in a puff of smoke, so he clings. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean manages, trying not to wince as his still-sore ribs are crushed in the circle of Cas’ arms— _not_ that he’s complaining. Cas has his face buried in the space below Dean’s jaw, breathing deeply and sniffling a little, and Dean relishes the heat of Cas’ breath on his skin. 

“I thought you were dead,” Cas admits, the sound muffled by Dean’s own hospital gown and the way Cas’ face is smushed into his neck. “When I woke up, I thought—”

“Not dead,” Dean replies, tightening his grip as much as he can around Castiel’s waist. He’s still plenty weak, still in a lot of pain, but none of that matters right now. “I’m really sorry,” he mutters, ducking his own face into Castiel’s shoulder, ashamed.

“I’ll, uh—I’ll give you two a couple of minutes,” the nurse pipes up. “Ill just be—yeah.” Dean doesn’t bother acknowledging her, but he waits, listening to the soft sound of footsteps retreating. Almost the second that they’re alone, Castiel shifts back and puts Dean at arm’s length, to Dean’s extreme disappointment and regret. 

_Definitely still mad._

Castiel’s beautiful, normally kind eyes are narrowed dangerously as he regards Dean with distrust. Without a word, he reaches forward and _flicks_ Dean soundly with his thumb and pointer finger, the impact landing _right_ in the middle of Dean’s forehead.

“Ow,” Dean protests reflexively (even though the gesture didn’t _actually_ hurt), touching his fingers to the spot Cas’ have just vacated. “What the hell?” 

“You deserved that,” is all Castiel replies, and alright, Dean can give him that. Shrugging with one shoulder and sagging back onto the thin-sheeted mattress, Dean sighs. He’s exhausted and his eyes are begging for him to close them again already, but there’s so much he wants to know before he succumbs to sleep. So much that he needs to set straight. 

Cas’ hand is right there, resting temptingly on his thigh, so Dean grabs it and intertwines their fingers together. He stares down at their joined hands for a moment before meeting Cas’ gaze again and holding it. 

“I do love you,” he says seriously, not failing to note Cas’ responding sharp intake of breath and feeling all the more shitty for it. “C’mon, you seriously didn’t know?” 

A few seconds of silence pass as Castiel studies him, baby blues scouring Dean’s face and past it, all the way down to his soul. It makes Dean wonder if Cas can still see it these days, or if he just likes considering the echoing memory. “I knew. I didn’t think you’d ever say so out loud,” Castiel admits, finally. “Or, at least, not when we weren’t at risk of imminent death.”

Dean just blinks, mouth hanging open and brain ready to protest, but in the end, he refrains. Cas is right, after all—he didn’t say it, not when it counted, not until it was almost too late. His mouth snaps shut and all he can do is peer up at Castiel guiltily. Hell, he did this. He brought them here, in more ways than one. It was Dean’s own actions (or lack thereof), _his_ shitty choices that got himself captured and nearly killed, and then almost took Cas out in the process.

 _That_ thought brings back the memory of crouching on chilly ground, next to prickly bushes, of a bag being thrown over his head, of being dragged, beaten, _stripped—_ but Dean shoves it all down. He’s got plenty of time to rehash his newest excuse for crippling PTSD later.

“Cas, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” Dean says softly. Next to him, Castiel looks uncomfortable, like maybe he’s not quite ready to accept Dean’s apologies, but he doesn’t take his hand away or stand up to leave. Instead, he just stares down at his lap and nods. 

“I understand, Dean. I know that this transition hasn’t been easy for you. I know that you’re unhappy, that you feel bored and useless without hunting. But moving forward doesn’t have to mean sitting around the Bunker, day in and day out. There’s so much _more,_ Dean. I just—I wish that you would let me in, let me _help._ We could be facing this together, you know.” 

Cas looks so damn sad, so _stricken,_ and for the first time, Dean really begins to comprehend the damage he’s wrought. He knew—of course he knew—that Cas wasn’t happy with him still going out hunting. He also knew that he’d made mistakes with their relationship, and with his own coping mechanisms, but _this—_

“God, Cas, I’m an idiot. I’ll say it again—I’m _so_ fuckin’ sorry,” Dean blurts out, tugging at Castiel’s hand until he makes eye contact again. “I _love_ you,” he says emphatically. “I was stupid, and I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. Sorry for making it seem like I only wanted to say the words when I didn’t have to back ‘em up with actions. I’m sorry for—for not putting you first or thinkin’ about your feelings. I’m sorry for making it out like I want to hunt more than I want a life with you. Hey—I don’t. You know that, right? You know that now?” 

Licking his lips, Castiel’s eyes turn bright and glassy as he nods. “I was hoping,” he replies. 

“Good,” Dean affirms, squeezing his fingers and nodding. “That’s—that’s good, Cas.” 

Castiel is quiet for a moment, looking back down at their clasped hands and rubbing his thumb lightly over Dean’s. It’s the same motion he’d been doing back when they were holed up in the cave. _Cold comfort._ Cas clears his throat. His cheeks color slightly as he asks, “Would it be too much to ask you to say it again?” 

“Say— _oh,_ ” Dean replies meaningfully, a cheeky smile creeping across his face. “What? That I love you? That I’m _in_ love with you? You’re almost as adorable as me. I love you, Cas,” he says easily. 

“No, actually,” Castiel tells him, very obviously reluctant to clarify. He shifts uncomfortably, and is that _embarrassment_ written all over his face? Dean’s not entirely sure he’s ever seen this particular version of that emotion on Cas. Cute as it is, he hates that he’s had a part in turning the former angel so insecure. “Well, yes,” Castiel corrects himself, “That was wonderful. However—I meant the part about...about our life together.”

Shifting to sit up a little straighter and flat-out ignoring the wave of dizziness that comes with doing so, Dean drops the cutesy act and bumps his shoulder against Cas’ affectionately. “Look,” he says. “I know I ain’t given you any reason to trust me, but I promise you, Cas. I’m done. That was my last hunt. You know, unless a werewolf jumps us while we’re leaving a bar. Or like, if our future house turns out to be haunted.” 

Castiel’s head snaps up, and Dean smiles at him warmly, pleased at the reaction he’s provoked. 

“Future—?”

Dean shrugs, doing his best to look casual. Meanwhile, inside, he’s terrified and pretty damn thrilled at Cas’ evident enthusiasm. It’s long past time he gave Castiel something real to hold onto, to look forward to. The ring was stupid, absent of everything else Cas deserves backing the gesture up. Dean gets that now.

“Yeah, you know, if that’s something you’d want. Maybe not right away, ‘course. Gotta get jobs and save up some of our own cash. ‘Bout time we passed these bottomless credit cards to people who need ‘em, maybe hand the Bunker over, too. Can’t help thinking about Claire and Kaia, Patience, even Krissy and her crew—the next generation. Feels right to pass on the hunting home base and for us to move on.”

“You love the Bunker,” Castiel persists, sounding stunned. “It’s—it’s the first home you and Sam have ever really had. You love the kitchen, and the Dean Cave, and your room.” 

Ducking his head, Dean knocks it against Castiel’s shoulder and then keeps it there. “Nah,” he says. “Sam had the right idea. I can make a Dean Cave anywhere, and you’re crazy if you don’t think that mattress on our bed is comin’ with us. The Bunker will always be there, we can come back and visit. But home?” Dean pauses, changes his grip on Castiel’s hand so that their fingers slide together, lock and key. “You’re my home, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have needed _another_ near-death experience to tell you so, but I’m hopin’ you’ll forgive me one more time.” 

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, choked up and more breathy than Dean’s ever heard him speak. “Of course. Of _course._ I—” He cuts himself off, reaching into the breast pocket of his hospital gown and extracting something. When he opens his fist, _the_ ring is sitting innocuously in the middle of his palm. 

Surprised, Dean sits up and waits, not entirely sure what to expect. Cas doesn’t say anything, though. He simply presses the ring into the middle of Dean’s hand and folds his fingers around it. When he’s done, he wraps Dean’s closed hand up between both of his own. 

“Ask me again,” Cas says softly. “When you’re ready. Now that you know we’re both going to live.” 

“That’s unnecessary,” a familiar voice interjects, completely destroying Dean’s aptly-timed lean-in for what _would_ have undoubtedly been a friggin’ _awesome_ kiss. 

“What the f—”

“Jack!” Castiel yelps happily, sliding off of the bed and crossing the room swiftly to where Jack is hanging out like a creeper in the corner. Happy as he might be to see him, Dean can’t help thinking that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Goddamn stealth-angels. God or not, he’s _definitely_ getting Jack a bell. 

“Hello!” Jack says brightly, one hand raised and a silly smile plastered across his face.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean asks gruffly, folding his arms across his chest while Jack reaps the benefits of Dean laying himself emotionally bare for the first time ever, _fuck his life._ That’s _his_ snuggly bear-hug Jack’s trying his best to wiggle out of, damn it. “You come when we damn well call you.”

“I was in the Empty,” Jack says matter-of-factly, when Castiel finally let him go. Annoyed as he might be at Jack going MIA and then showing up at the very worst time, Dean can hardly resent the way he makes Cas light up like a fuckin’ Jack-o-Lantern (no pun intended, _what the hell is wrong with him?)_ just by being in the room. The happiness on Cas’ face only lasts until he hears _that_ name, though. After that, he’s frowning, clearly concerned.

“The Empty? Jack—”

“You were just _hanging out_ in the Empty, and you couldn’t pop over here long enough to smite a couple of vamps? What, too busy trading torture tips with the Shadow to worry about whether your dads live through the night?” Dean folds his arms and glares, but Jack just narrows his eyes and tips his head to the side, confused.

“You were the one who told me not to intervene when it comes to free will and ‘natural consequences,’” he replies, making air quotes with his fingers. 

Dean practically growls in exasperation. “That doesn’t apply to _us,_ Jack, dammit!”

At that point, Castiel decides he’s done entertaining Dean’s complaining, stepping in between them so that Jack’s attention is forced onto him. “The Empty. Elaborate,” he insists, sternly.

“Don’t worry,” Jack replies breezily, maybe actually reading Castiel’s mind as he touches his arm in what’s probably meant to be a comforting gesture. “I was invited.”

“Oh, he was _invited—”_ Dean mocks, which Jack rightfully ignores.

“The Shadow and I are working out some new rules. We have plans to re-evaluate the fates of all the creatures currently resting there. If all goes as planned, many will be returned to Heaven. Balthazar, Hannah, Inias. Gabriel. Many of those lost during and after Raphael’s war.”

That news chokes Castiel up a little, and Dean can understand that, so he resists making any more snappy remarks. Jack is basically undoing all of Castiel’s biggest regrets, that’s gotta be a hard pill to swallow. 

“Is there a price?” Castiel asks, once he gets ahold of himself. He’s still standing ridiculously close to Jack, forever the protector, no matter how much he’s changed. No matter how clearly _Jack_ doesn’t need him any longer. Dean finds it all terribly endearing, the way Cas acts as if he hasn’t been reduced to a speck of dust in the corner of Jack’s eye, his life not even a blip on the radar in Jack’s eternal timeline. Both he and Cas will live and they will die, and Jack—Jack will have barely even begun. 

“There’s always a price,” Jack answers wisely, and for just a _split-second,_ Dean sees it. Sees beyond the goofy bomber jacket and the velcro shoes, the boy-band hair and the baby-faced smile. In that instant, Jack looks _ancient._ The blue of his eyes is deep, and endless. Dean shivers, and wonders if Cas has _any_ fucking clue what he’s standing next to, the thing he calls his son. 

“Be careful,” Castiel tells him, touching his elbow gently, and as Jack looks over, the glance they exchange says it all. He knows. Of course, he knows, and Cas loves him anyway.

“That’s not why I’m here, though,” Jack says, relaxing again and shoving his hands into his pockets, the electric tension in the air snapping and fizzling out. Or perhaps it was never there to begin with—Dean’s certainly imagined wilder things. “Time moves...differently in the Empty. It was...troublesome to determine what point in our continuum to return to when I was finished there. So, I came to apologize. For not making it in time to rescue you myself. And to do this!” 

He punctuates his sentence with a two-fingered touch to Castiel’s forehead and a tiny spark of yellow light that passes between their points of contact. Castiel shakes his head and blinks, full color returning to his face as the lines of tension indicating pain and discomfort simply melt away.

“Your turn,” Jack declares brightly, practically skipping over to Dean’s bedside and repeating the gesture while Dean forces himself not to bat his hand away. _Dopey ball of sunshine._ When Jack’s fingers touch his head, Dean feels that familiar warm rush of grace (or something like it) coursing through his system. Jack’s power erases bruises, knits muscle and bone back together, replenishes blood and fluids, electrolytes and nutrients—everything he’s lost. 

By the time the hand on his head disappears, Dean feels _good,_ feels relieved _._ He’s perfectly healed and no longer exhausted, though now that he’s well, Dean’s able to fully grasp how badly-off he was. It’s an uncomfortable revelation. From the looks of his expression, Castiel seems to be coping with similar thoughts. 

“Thanks,” Dean mutters gruffly. He rips each of his IVs unflinchingly from his arm, ignoring the sting and the blood that trickles out in their wake. Jack raises an eyebrow but touches him again without comment, and those wounds disappear too. 

Dean salutes, scooting out of the bed and making immediately for the plastic bag on the counter marked “Patient Belongings.” He opens it up, scowling and grumbling in frustration when all he finds are dirty purple shreds of what used to be clothing. Not that Dean was looking forward to hopping back into that nasty sweatsuit—hell, he was probably going to burn that shit on a pyre—but anything is superior to a butt-baring hospital gown. 

Holding up the bag, Dean turns to face Jack. The kid is watching him expectantly, clearly pleased as punch with himself. “Think you could do your people one more solid and pop us all back to the Bunker before we continue this conversation?”

Jack shrugs but reaches out immediately to touch Castiel’s shoulder. Dean steps forward and then back at the last second, remembering himself. “Wait, we need Sam. And the cars,” he adds meaningfully. “You _can_ get Baby home safely, too, right?”

Wrinkling his brow like he can’t quite comprehend why Dean would ask such a ridiculous question (but also like he’s not entirely certain himself), Jack replies, “I’m God...I can do anything.” His tone of voice doesn’t carry the same conviction as his words, but Dean figures that he’s probably right, regardless. 

“And Sam?” 

“Here.” Sam’s voice pipes up almost sheepishly as he slides between the curtain and the doorway into the room. 

“What the hell?” Dean asks, lifting his arms and letting them slap back down to his sides, plastic bag rustling obnoxiously. “Where were you?” 

“Uh, I was giving you and Cas your _space,_ Dean. If you’re gonna be a bitch about it, next time I’ll walk in and interrupt your dramatic googly eyes, alright?” Sam crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, nudging Cas’ bicep with his elbow. “I don’t know how you put up with him, Cas, but I’m damn glad that you do.” 

“You’re the bitch, bitch,” Dean grumbles petulantly. Everyone ignores him.

Solemnly, Castiel nods. “It is certainly one of the great mysteries of the universe. Like Stonehenge. Which, by the way—that was Gabriel. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, it was a sex thing.” 

Huffing a breath, Dean does his best to not look seriously affronted by everyone mocking him. Makes the insta-healing slightly less satisfying—at least no one pokes fun at the guy who’s still maybe close to dying in his hospital bed. _Regrets._

“Whatever, assholes. What about Jody and co? They lurking out in the hallway, too?” 

“No,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “They took off once we were sure you’d both be okay. Claire’s been tracking a pretty major ghoul situation down in Texas. Travel time considered, they’ve already put off taking care of it by a week. Don’t worry,” Sam preempts Dean, seeing his mouth open and holding up a hand to ward his protest off. “Coming to your rescue was everyone’s first priority. No one regrets it. Anyway, we’ll Facetime them later.”

“Damn,” Dean replies, pulling a hand down over his mouth. “From one hunt to the next, huh? Sounds familiar.” He catches Castiel’s eye, clocking his worried expression and knowing that Cas is wondering if Dean wishes he were going with the girls, instead of home. Cas isn’t wrong; a part of Dean will probably always wish that he was out on the road—saving people, hunting things. 

That’s not his life anymore, though. It hasn’t been for a long time now, and that’s something Dean just needs to accept. 

Clearing his throat pointedly, Dean swiftly changes the subject. “Like I was saying before the moose showed up—think we can continue this little tete-a-tete in a less...sterile environment? Preferably with pants on? Just me, not Cas.” Dean tops his ramble off with what he’s sure is an _incredibly_ charming wink. As expected, he receives matching bitchfaces from both Cas and Sam, but beyond that, Castiel definitely looks relieved. 

Jack, for his part, simply cocks his head to the side and seems thoughtful. He opens his mouth, but Dean cuts off whatever awkward thing is about to come out of it by shuffling forward and gathering all four of them together in a huddle. 

“Let’s roll,” he demands, and thankfully, Jack’s mouth closes and he complies. 

In the blink of an eye, they’re no longer standing in Dean’s hospital room but clustered in the middle of the Bunker’s kitchen. “Awesome,” Dean declares gleefully. “I’m starving.” He makes his way over to the fridge and starts pulling out sandwich ingredients, gown still flapping in the wind and making everyone behind him yell out in protest when he turns his back. 

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug, mouth already full of sliced ham as he zeroes in on Jack. “Hey, you. God, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.”

“Still just Jack,” Jack replies in measured tone, as Castiel smiles and pats him encouragingly between his shoulder blades. Dean nods, snapping his fingers demandingly in the direction of the garage.

“Yeah, yeah. Go get my Baby, you owe us that much.” 

“She’s already parked in her usual spot,” Jack responds, quirking an eyebrow. “So is the Thunderbird. Dean’s items from the cabin and all of Castiel’s things he left in his hospital room are on your bed in Room Eleven. Sam, your rental car has been returned to the agency in Montana. Oh, and your boots, Dean,” Jack adds, like an afterthought. “You forgot them. I also took the liberty of fixing these.” He reaches into the plastic belongings bag Dean left abandoned on the countertop, pulling out the gross purple NYU sweatshirt and pants. Both are once again whole, plus miraculously free of blood and dirt. 

Holding them up proudly, Jack grins widely. “See?” 

Haphazardly compiled sandwich lifted halfway to his mouth, Dean pauses. “Wow,” he says, somewhat grudgingly. “That’s uh, some party trick. But you can burn those.” He tips his head and takes a big bite before accidentally catching Castiel’s reproachful glare. Swallowing as quickly as he can, Dean tries to appear apologetic as Jack continues to look at him hopefully. 

“Thanks, kid,” he says sincerely, and Jack beams. “There’s Crunch Cookie Crunch on the shelf if you want it.” 

As Jack excitedly takes him up on the offer of a bowl, Dean quickly makes three more sandwiches and hands one off to Sam and Castiel each. After Castiel explains in hushed, pretend-secretive tones why Dean doesn’t want _those_ particular articles of clothing, Jack nods and “Oh,”s in understanding, while Dean ignores them both in favor of stuffing his face.

Subsequently (and without further comment, which Dean appreciates), Jack snaps an identical pair of Dean’s long-lost favorite jeans back onto his body. Cas, for his part, disappears into the Bunker and comes back with his own new outfit, complete with one of his crazy homemade sweaters. The left sleeve is too long and comes down nearly all the way over his hand. He looks adorable, and Dean’s interest in debriefing falls close to zero.

No longer half-naked, they all move towards the table and settle down.

“So,” Sam says, almost hesitantly as he glances between their faces. “I guess you guys want to know what happened, huh?” 

Dean just grunts around the mouthful of food he’s chewing and motions for Sam to get on with it. Cas’ leg is pressing against his under the table, and Dean’s not even sure he cares how they got out of this mess alive. All that matters is they _did,_ and that they’re here now, ready to make the most of their (second) second chance.

On the other hand, Dean’s equally thrilled to have his brother home, even if it’s temporary. It’s been a while—too long—and he’s plenty happy to just sit and listen to Sam talk. He doesn’t need to glance over at Cas to know that he’s looking at Jack and feeling the same way. With the four of them gathered around the table, it’s almost like old times—minus the usual impending doom ( _knock on wood)_. 

Knowing that he’s a damn lucky bastard, Dean eats his sandwich and shuts his trap while Sam speaks.

The story his brother relays isn’t overly long, and most of it is what Dean is expecting. While he and Cas were traipsing through the woods, barely alive, Sam met up with Jody, Claire, and Kaia at Rufus’ cabin. They figured there wasn’t enough time to wait for additional backup, but got several other hunters on the road in the meantime—just in case. 

“Good thinking,” Dean grunts, swigging deeply from his beer. Sam just raises his eyebrows like he can’t believe Dean has the nerve—it’s like he’s never even met him. 

Anyway—after gearing up heavily, the impromptu rescue team headed into the woods. According to Sam, it was easy to follow Castiel’s trail, a fact that Castiel takes exception to, for some unknown reason.

“I’m telling you, Cas, it was like an elephant trampled over it,” Sam persists, despite Cas’ objections.

Looking utterly confused, Castiel cuts Jack’s attempted interjection off, tipping his head to the side as he leans forward. “I may have gained a few pounds in my newfound human contentedness, but I am certainly not heavy enough to create that sort of path through dense brush.” He pauses and then blinks over at Dean with a mix of dawning fear and concern, clearly questioning his own assumptions about life and the universe. _Welcome to humanity, Cas._ “Am I?” 

Dean just snorts and takes another bite of his sandwich, because Cas is not actually enough of an idiot to believe his own bullshit. There’s no way _Dean_ is going to fall into the trap of suggesting that those crap insecurities need validation, either. He may not be _great_ at relationships, per se, but this is one thing he knows like the back of his hand. That shit is a trap. 

Castiel looks affronted by his lack of an answer anyway—which only proves Dean’s point—but thankfully, Jack jumps in before the situation can devolve.

“If you’d all let me speak, I could clear a few things up,” Jack offers, bowl of Crunch Cookie Crunch half-eaten and forgotten in front of him. 

“Oh,” Sam replies, sitting back and gesturing for Jack to go ahead. He looks like he might’ve forgotten the kid was even there, and Dean shakes his head a little. “Sorry, Jack. Shoot.” 

Jack nods. “I did that,” he says proudly, and then seems to think better of it when they all continue gaping at him silently, his wide smile faltering. “Well, Fatback did. I called on him to help! Oh, and the bird—the Yellow Warbler—I sent her to Cas so that he wouldn’t lose hope.” Jack looks around expectantly at the three other men framing the table, as if that jumble of words is supposed to mean something to anyone else besides him.

“Uhm, Jack,” Castiel starts, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on Jack’s wrist. “We have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“My apologies,” Jack continues meaningfully, touching his palm to the side of his head. “I forgot you all haven’t properly met.” He grins, and before Dean can really process what’s happening, Jack is snapping those damn fingers. 

“ _O_ _ink!”_

“Holy fuck—is that a _pig?”_ Dean squeals, jumping out of his seat and up onto the table, sending bowls clattering and cups spilling all over the place. Sam shoves himself away from a growing waterfall of iced tea, grumbling loudly about his now-wet shirt. Up on the tabletop, Dean can’t believe that anyone is paying attention to _anything_ other than the furry, brown, _snouted_ creature standing ( _happily?)_ in the middle of the kitchen.

“Yes,” Jack continues calmly, the only one of the four of them still seated. “This is Fatback. He is a spirit guide. I sent him to help you while I was stuck in the Empty.” 

“Oink,” Fatback snorts pointedly, nodding his head in Jack’s general direction like he understands the conversation and wants to partake.

 _Or does he? He’s a fucking pig,_ Dean thinks. _What is happening here?_

“Fatback would like me to tell you that it was him who led the vampires away from the cave that first night.”

“Oink.”

“And nudged Dean and Castiel onto the right path while you were making your way out of the forest. _And_ directed your rescuers to your location, after you both passed out.”

Sam steps forward again, crumpled napkin in hand, apparently giving up on fussing over his wet clothes. “Dean—Jack’s right. That pig was in the clearing when Jody and the girls and I showed up,” he says excitedly. “We—okay, well, _I_ chased him off. I thought he was trying to eat you, but—Dean, I didn’t get to that part of the story yet. When we finally found you two, the vamps were already there. The pig—”

“Oink!”

Sam looks stunned at the unanticipated interruption and glances towards Jack, presumably for some indication on how to proceed.

“Fatback,” Jack supplies placidly, still sitting calmly in his seat like all of this is perfectly normal. “He wants you to use his name.”

“Uh, right,” Sam says slowly. “ _Fatback_ was standing over you, Cas. I think—he must have been keeping them at bay.” 

Dean’s eyes whip to Castiel’s face, fully anticipating what’s coming before he sees it and intending to head this impending disaster off. “Oh, hell no,” he declares, but any idiot can see that he’s too damn late.

Cas’ eyes are wide and hopeful, locked onto the pig who is _wagging his tail_ and staring back at the ex-angel like he, too, has found his soulmate. “I love him already,” Castiel says almost reverently, clasping his hands together like he’s trying to restrain himself from tackling the animal and snuggling the damn thing to death.

Dean climbs off of the table, first onto his chair and then down to the floor before turning to face his—his _Cas. They really need to hash that detail out sometime soon._ “You cannot keep a pig in the Bunker, Cas,” he says pointedly, hating himself for doing so as Cas’ face falls dramatically. Dean watches and contemplates murdering Jack—hey, wouldn’t even be the first time he took on God. 

“Oh, Fatback isn’t a normal pig,” Jack interrupts, in what Dean is sure he believes is a very helpful manner. The glare Dean is sending his way does nothing to disabuse Jack of that notion, anyway, and he continues, happily oblivious. “Like I said before, he’s a spirit guide. He’s very intelligent.” With that, Jack gets up out of his seat and makes his way to the pig’s side, scratching behind his ears without hesitation. Fatback leans into it and grunts. “Thank you for all of your help,” the kid says sincerely. “May I call on you again?” 

“Oink,” Fatback says in return. Dean just blinks in disbelief, wondering if he’s actually still unconscious in the hospital and this is all some sort of weird fever dream. 

“My family will take care of you in the meantime,” Jack continues, “That’s what they do. They find people in need and make them family, too.” He straightens up and looks over at Dean with intention. _No one can be that fuckin’ innocent, the little con artist._ “Right?” 

Dean sighs, very reluctantly. “Yeah,” he grumbles, through gritted teeth. “Sure, whatever.” The thousand-watt smile he gets in return is worth it, though. Even an outnumbered and out-gunned Dean can admit to that. Plus, the matching one on Cas’ face isn’t bad to look at, either.

“I read a story on the internet with a pig like this,” Castiel tells him excitedly, squeezing Dean’s hand. His eyes are still glued to the animal that’s apparently _staying,_ and Dean wonders who he’s supposed to pray to for strength when God is once again steadfastly against him. “I am very, _very_ happy about this unexpected development.” 

“What the hell stories are you reading on the internet?!”

“I have to go,” Jack pipes up again, before Cas can answer. He’s clearly remorseful, smile fading for the first time since his arrival. “I’m sorry again for not coming to your aid sooner. I feel…very guilty that my absence resulted in you both getting injured. Can you forgive me?” 

The ease in which he asks combined with the layered guilt in Jack’s voice stabs Dean straight through the heart. 

“Damn it, kid,” he says. “C’mere, none of this is your fault.” Before he can think better of it, Dean steps forward, dragging his sort-of-son into a tight hug that Jack only hesitates to reciprocate for a split second. That’s likely out of pure shock that it’s happening at all, which makes Dean feel like shit. Still, all he can do is move forward. “Sorry,” he mutters in Jack’s ear. “I know I’m tough on you. But you _are_ family, you know that right?” 

Dean pulls back, holding Jack at arm’s length and staring at him with eyebrows raised until he gets the nod of understanding he’s after. “Say it,” he says, more gently but still firmly when Jack is slow to comply.

“I’m...I’m family,” Jack murmurs, a soft smile and a light blush spreading across his face. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean claps him on the shoulder, shoves him playfully. “Get out of here. Go—go do whatever brand-new Gods do, or whatever.” 

“Answer prayers, mostly,” Jack tells him brightly, leaning to the side and holding up a single hand in Cas and Sam’s direction. “Sam, pray to me when you’d like to return home to Eileen. Perhaps after you share the big news?” 

“I’ll call you later,” Castiel butts in, with an accompanying sharp look. “You had better answer.” 

“Yes, Dad,” Jack intones, rolling his eyes and disappearing into thin air without so much as a snap of his fingers or a puff of smoke. Dean shakes his head; he’ll probably never get used to that.

“Oink,” Fatback grunts, making Dean jump a little in surprise and glare down at him.

The bristly thing actually _is_ kind of cute, and he _did_ save their lives (and he makes Cas look like a living emoji), but _still—what the fuck?_ Dean points his index finger at Fatback’s wet snout accusingly. “ _One_ shit on the floor and you’re out of here, got it?” 

“Oink,” Fatback replies agreeably. 

Dean narrows his eyes, suspicious. “I don’t like it,” he announces. Unfortunately, Castiel’s already kneeling on the tiled floor, trying his damndest to communicate with the four-legged menace, and Dean knows defeat when he sees it. 

_So much for getting laid anytime soon._

Instead of arguing, Dean slumps back down at the messy table across from Sam, who is also watching Cas and Fatback, expression incredulous. His wonder turns to teasing amusement when he notices Dean moping, though, and Dean is forced to hold up a warning “ _don’t try me”_ palm to ward his brotherly bullshit off.

“Not one word,” Dean threatens, before quickly draining the remainder of his now-warm beer. Sam holds up both hands in surrender, unsuccessfully biting back a knowing smile. “Hey, what did Jack mean, big news?” 

“Oh,” Sam says, his voice suddenly full of something Dean doesn’t recognize on his little brother at all. Discomfort, or— _something._ Something new, something different. Curious, Dean shifts his chair closer as Sam pulls out his phone, swiping swiftly until a grainy black and white image comes up on the screen. He flips the phone in Dean’s direction, leaving it face up on the table. “Congratulations, Uncle Dean.” 

It takes Dean a full minute of staring to register the news, and then it’s over for him. The tears are rolling down his face before he even realizes he’s crying, but for the first time in his life, Dean doesn’t care. He reaches out to yank Sam into a rough, almost desperate hug. 

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean rasps as he pulls away. Sniffling, he scrubs the remaining water and blur from his puffy eyes so that he can marvel at the screen some more. _BABY WINCHESTER,_ the top of the ultrasound reads, and that chokes Dean up all over again. “Best chick-flick moment ever,” he declares, clapping Sam affectionately on his back. 

After Dean retrieves two fresh beers, they clink the necks together and Dean notes that Sam hasn’t stopped smiling, not for one second. He’s thriving, Sam is. The former Boy King of Hell, the child with the demon blood, the man who yanked not one, but _two_ Archangels into the Cage using sheer willpower alone. The reluctant hunter who just a few short years ago was ready to throw in the towel on life itself, who told Dean to _let him die,_ that he was too tired to go on, is _having a goddamn baby._ With his wife-to-be, in a place that’s all their own, while they build a _safe_ and happy life together. 

Sam did it—he got out, he moved on.

God, Dean _wants_ that. He looks down again at the picture, looks up at Sam, and he finally, _finally_ understands. 

“What about you?” Sam asks quietly, jutting his chin towards Castiel and the pig.

Looking over his shoulder, Dean sighs and shakes his head, snorting a laugh. “What? You wonderin’ what I’m gonna do about the love of my life rolling around on the kitchen floor with a magical pig? I got no clue, man.” 

Sam frowns, looking down his nose with that patented bitch face of his out in full force, and Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m on it Samantha,” he insists, tapping the table with the bottom of his bottle. “I promise. I’m not gonna fuck it up again.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is unfamiliar, this is what Fatback looks like, lol:  
>  Or Lindsay's amazing art rendition: 
> 
> He appears in ["Deserted", the sequel to "Wild"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621123) as well as MalMuses' ["Falling Inn Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048640).
> 
> Did you notice Jack never got a chance to finish what he was saying when he showed up? ;)


	6. Changing the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a very explicit scene in it!! If you'd like to skip, just look for Cas saying, "I just want you, too." That's the end of your ride, so hop off before Dean hops on, lol. Don't forget to go to the next chapter, though, there's an epilogue. ;)
> 
> Thank you again to @coinofstone and @ladyrandombox for the editing, and especially LadyRandomBox for the lovely art. PLEASE follow us on social media and give her all the props for the art she's done!  
> Links:  
> [twitter (me)](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
> [twitter (her)](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox)  
> [tumblr (her)](www.ladyrandombox.tumblr.com)  
> [tumblr (me)](castielslostwings.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you all for coming on this ride with us, and for all of your amazing comments and kudos!!! Love you.

_He changes the game,_

_he plays and he raises the stakes._

_And if there's a reason he seems to thrive, when so few survive_

_Then Goddamnit, I'm willing to wait for it._

_I'm willing to wait for it._

  
It’s several hours later when Castiel searches out Dean again. Maybe Dean’s a _little_ salty about that—losing Cas’ attention to a goddamn pig—but the guy seems so stupidly happy, Dean doesn’t have the heart to say jack shit about it. 

Maybe he’s just lonely and jealous, which is dumb as hell because _pig_. 

It’s just that Sam left shortly after their little heart-to-heart in the kitchen, wife and real life to get back to and all of that. Dean understands, he just misses him. Not to mention, after all of the events that transpired over the last few days, sitting alone with his thoughts in his room at the Bunker is the last thing Dean feels like doing at the moment. 

Voluntary quiet introspection is just never going to be a thing Dean excels at. At this point, better to accept it and move the fuck on.

Despite that, there’s a strange, anxious calm that always comes alongside any big change that Dean knows he can’t avoid. Now that he’s alone, it sweeps through the Bunker like the north wind, settling into Dean’s bones during that inevitable waiting period between _making_ the decision and actually turning his intentions into demonstrable action. 

Dean feels it now—in the emptiness of Sam’s old room, in the way Jack’s presence still fills the Bunker’s kitchen, but Jack himself is long gone. The Bunker has always been a lot more space than they needed, but now, that void weighs on him. 

It really is time to move on. 

Last Dean checked, Cas was over in the Dean-Cave, busy putting out mixing bowls full of food and water, lovingly arranged next to a nest woven from every spare blanket he could rustle up. The pig seemed happy, burrowing down into the pile with a series of grunts, but pigs normally roll around in mud and shit, don’t they? Dean’s not sure, but he is skeptical. Even if the thing _is_ magical and can understand them or whatever, the bar can’t be all that high to keeping it content. 

So long as Dean doesn’t wake up being eaten alive in his bed, they’ll be kosher. Hey, he’s seen _Hannibal_. Who knows if their little houseguest has a taste for blood? 

Point being, with Cas otherwise occupied, all Dean can really do is wait. He kills some time setting up his _(their)_ room nicely. Extra blankets (the ones Cas doesn’t know about) on the bed, Zepp on his CD player, some candles. He tries to zone out and read some Kerouac, but ultimately, he’s too unsettled, too restless. 

So instead of relaxing on his memory foam, Dean drinks three beers and changes outfits four or five times, like that’s something Cas is even going to notice once he does finally wander this way. After the same similar t-shirt and flannel combo mocks him in the mirror for the umpteenth time, Dean gets an idea, and he switches gears completely. 

Hey, if he’s going to be sappy and ridiculous, might as well go all-in. 

Which is why, when Castiel eventually rounds the corner to their room, he finds Dean sprawled out on the bed wearing _only_ his tightest pair of boxer briefs and the very first sweater Castiel knit him. The thing is an unrepentant atrocity; blue, pink, and purple yarn in confusing, twisted patterns with a gaping neck hole and sleeves that are somehow too big and too small at the same time. The bottom hem is a bit too short, leaving it to ride up over Dean’s bare stomach, accidentally teasing.

Dean grins up at Castiel cheekily from where he’s laid out, hands tucked behind his head and legs spread provocatively (read: _fully_ intentional teasing). The effect lands; Castiel’s eyebrows shoot nearly up into his hair and he abandons the armful of crap he’s carrying unceremoniously onto Dean’s desk.

Thankfully, the pig is nowhere in sight.

No further invitation is needed; Cas has never been unsubtle about wanting Dean and accepting whatever he’s willing to give—at least once the dam broke after that first unexpected kiss. 

Today is no exception. Castiel kicks his shoes off immediately, ripping his sweater over his head and dropping it to the floor in their wake. And _damn,_ Cas in nothing but a pair of Dean’s softest grey sweatpants? Nothing to complain about there.

For a second, Dean just marvels, even as Cas knees up onto the bed and crawls over him on all fours with a feral, hungry look in his eyes. 

Dean’s torn. On the one hand, he wants the exact same thing that Cas does. Wants to shove aside all the pain and hurt of the last several days and drown in the feeling of Cas’ body pressed against his own. Wants to touch and scratch and lick, to sink into Cas or drag Cas down inside of him until they’re both sweating and screaming and hardly able to remember their own names. 

It’s _good_ with Cas—it always has been; this is not an area of their lives that needs improvement. 

Reluctantly, Dean admits to himself that might be part of the problem. In the past, he’s used sex and the novelty of their physical relationship to avoid _dealing_ with the emotional side of things. Just like he always did in the past with strangers and random bar hookups, he sought comfort and turned to sleeping with Castiel as both a coping mechanism _and_ a way to avoid using his words. That wasn’t fair, trusting that Cas understood how much he meant to Dean simply because Dean was willing to fuck him. 

No, Dean’s gotta grow past this, because doing shit like _that_ lead to even worse choices down the road. Like thinking Cas would be impressed by a last-ditch proposal from a dead man walking. 

Dean flushes just thinking back on that mess. About how furious Cas was with him, about how he knew from the jump that Cas deserved better, but he selfishly put it out there anyway. Barely resisting the urge to flip over and bury his face into the pillows from embarrassment, Dean bites his lip and turns his head to the side when a bronzed and gorgeous, half-naked Castiel leans down for a kiss. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Dean replies quickly, cupping Castiel’s face with one hand and shoving his way to a sitting position. The way Cas’ limbs were already bracketing his body on the bed, it’s easy for Dean to pull him into his lap once he’s upright. To Dean’s great satisfaction, Castiel looks surprised but pleased, although less so when he leans in yet again for a kiss and Dean stops him—for the second time. 

Quirking an eyebrow, Castiel lets his hand drop from Dean’s shoulder as he sits back on his heels. “Planning on telling me about it?” 

“I’m getting there,” Dean assures him, somewhat grumpily. He is, but he’s also still working to shuffle his thoughts into something at all resembling coherence. Into something Cas won’t run screaming from the room over when he hears it fumble its way from Dean’s blundering mouth. 

“I just—Cas, look.” Speaking of Dean’s mouth, it is _dry_ as a torched bone and his palms are sweaty, and it’s suddenly too hot and airless in this fuckin’ room, _who turned off the A.C.?!_

Dean takes a moment, steeling himself with a deep breath and a cautious glance into Cas’ eternally patient, ocean-blue eyes. “God, Cas, you’re so beautiful,” is what comes out of him next, which isn’t at all what Dean intended, but hey. He’s definitely said dumber crap while nervous, at least that one was _true_.

The lines at the corners of Cas’ eyes crinkle. This time, when Cas leans forward to slot their lips together, Dean lets him. Instinctively, his eyes flutter closed, savoring the feel and taste of Cas’ mouth on his for a long, sweet moment. The hand he has resting on Cas’ waist slides up his back, holding them together. 

Dean has never in his life felt so goddamn _right._

Too soon, they part, but gently—a promise from Castiel that this will continue whenever Dean is ready. Cas barely puts space between them when the kiss ends, leaving their foreheads touching. Dean’s kind of grateful. It’s easier to spill his guts without having to look him directly in the eyes, cowardly as that may be. He shoots his shot.

“I’m sorry again, for what I did out there. Back when I thought…”

“When you thought you were dying?” Castiel offers. He doesn’t sound angry anymore—maybe slightly amused, which Dean knows he deserves (and far worse).

“Yeah,” Dean admits, nosing at the edge of Cas’ jaw. His stubble is rough and prickles Dean’s skin. “I know that what I’m about to say doesn’t make it better, but I just didn’t think—I didn’t think you’d _see_ it that way. Hell, _I_ didn’t see it that way, which was stupid. ‘Course that’s what you felt. I swear though, Cas, the sentiment _was_ real. I love you. I _want_ you. For the rest of your life and mine, not less but more so now that I know this isn’t the end.” 

Perched in his lap, Castiel doesn’t reply at first, just strokes a hand through Dean’s hair, fingers dancing around the shell of his ear, the nape of his neck. There’s something about his silence that feels hesitant, though, so Dean shuts his mouth for a minute and waits. 

Finally, Castiel sighs and settles down further onto Dean’s thighs in a way that—in _any other context, at any other moment—_ would be extremely suggestive. Only right now, Castiel just looks kind of upset. Worried even, which Dean hates. Not exactly where he thought this night and this scene were headed. When he speaks, Cas’ tone reflects the same sort of melancholy-blue uncertainty. 

“There are, of course, things I haven’t told you, either,” he begins. Cas’ hands are still busy roaming liberally over Dean’s available skin, so Dean tries not to feel too worried about this sudden shift in tone. “I didn’t see it coming, Dean,” he says softly, looking down at his own fingers, now tangled in the front of Dean’s sweater. “When I was human and you threw me out, I _didn’t see it coming.”_

Dean opens his mouth to protest or maybe reassure Castiel—he isn’t entirely sure—but Cas gets a finger up to his lips before he can spit a word out. “Just let me finish,” Cas entreats, eyes sorrowful. When Dean nods, though, Castiel graces him with a small smile. 

He continues, “I know that you didn’t have a choice, and I’ve long-since forgiven you, so please—this is not about that. It’s about me, mostly. It’s that _I_ didn’t see it coming _._ Add to that everything I’m experiencing _now_ with being newly human—it's so familiar and yet so different, I sometimes find myself…floundering. I can’t help comparing what things were like for me then and what things are like now.” 

“There _is_ no comparison, of course, and I do trust you, Dean. It’s perhaps that I don’t trust myself when it comes to you.” Castiel strokes down the side of his face and Dean barely resists the urge to gather him into a bear hug and smother these insecurities—that _he’s_ helped put there, apparently—away. “I’ve always seen the best in you, always put you first and trusted your judgement. I think—I think that I’m simply painfully aware of how fragile and vulnerable human beings are, now that I’m one of them. Now that there’s no going back, no more second chances coming down the pipeline.” 

Dean licks his lips, watching as Castiel’s eyes track the motion. “You’re worried about what happens if I change my mind. If—if you go all in, and I’m not on the same page.” 

“Essentially,” Castiel affirms with a nod. “It wouldn’t be the first time I gave everything for Dean Winchester and he—”

“Stop,” Dean grits out fiercely, eyes narrowed. “How is that different than if I was like, oh, wouldn’t be the first time I let Cas into my bedroom and he played me? That’s bullshit,” Dean argues. “Cas, you got insecurities, fine, we all do. But we’ve both fucked up with each other in the past. Either we let that shit go, or it follows us and tears us apart.” He sits up a little straighter, gathers both of Cas’ hands in between his own, and looks into Castiel’s eyes imploringly.

“I ain’t that guy anymore, sweetheart. That guy—he wouldn’t have let you kiss him in the hallway all those months ago. He wouldn’t have admitted to Sam that he’s in love with you today. He wouldn’t have bought a ring and tried to give it to you at a totally inappropriate time.” 

Castiel huffs a small laugh and Dean feels emboldened. “That guy loved you too, you know,” he adds. “He loved you for years and was too chickenshit to let you love him back. He made a crap ton of mistakes that he wishes he could erase or do over, but I’m _not_ him, Cas. I’ve learned my lessons, a lot of them the hard way.” 

A single tear escapes from Cas’ right eye and tracks its way down his cheek while he nods. “I understand,” Cas says simply. “I believe you. For the record, I am not ‘that guy’—” _Those are actual air quotes, what a fuckin’ dork._ Dean loves him. “—the one who ‘played you’, anymore, either.” 

“Then marry me,” Dean says evenly, producing the ring from where it’s been tucked next to his hip ever since he climbed into bed with full intentions of guiding them here. He holds the band up between his thumb and forefinger, right in front of Castiel’s face. “You wanted to move forward, I’m ready. I told you, things are gonna be different from here on out. This is step one: real commitment. You deserve so much more, but it’s a start.” 

“Oh,” Castiel replies, his voice breathy. He borrows Dean’s sleeve to drag it across his eyes. Blinking to clear them, he takes the ring and slips it onto his left ring finger without hesitation, admiring it with his arm outstretched. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Yes, of course, Dean.” 

Grinning, Dean leans in to claim his victory kiss, but Castiel stops him with a hand to his chest. Dean’s expression drops swiftly into a frown and he pouts. “What’s wrong now?” 

“What? Oh, no, nothing’s wrong,” Castiel replies absently. He’s still staring down at his hand, probably appreciating the way the silver band pops against his tanned skin. He closes his fingers into a fist and presses it to his mouth, shifting his gaze up to Dean almost guiltily. “There’s—there’s something I need to tell you. Something Jack informed me of when he returned here after bringing Sam home.” 

Dean reluctantly drags his attention away from the mole that sits directly above Cas’ right nipple and his plans for turning it into a sweet-looking purple bruise. “Jack came back? That doesn’t sound ominous or anything at all,” he scoffs, trying not to sound as worried as he feels.

“It’s nothing bad,” Castiel continues, hesitantly. “Or, at least, _I_ don’t feel that it’s bad. I just—I’m unsure as to why I was unaware of it. Perhaps I did know, and the information was erased from my mind at some point. I mean, I can make an educated guess as to why Chuck never mentioned it, considering, but it was _my_ grace, I should have known—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts impatiently, lifting his hand like, _what the fuck?_ “You wanna give me the Cliff Notes version of whatever’s got your panties in a bunch, or what?” 

Castiel’s brow furrows and he looks down towards his crotch, like— “Jesus, Cas,” Dean grumbles, shifting around so that his right ass cheek stops going numb beneath him. “Not _actual—_ okay, remind me to come back to that—tell me what Jack said, already.” 

“As it turns out,” Castiel says—extremely carefully, which doesn’t make Dean anxious at all—while fiddling with his ring, “we are already married.” 

Dean just stares back at him dumbly, because he’s pretty sure that no, no, they definitely are not. 

Castiel sighs and runs a hand through his hair before shrugging. “Not in the human, _legal_ form you’re thinking of, naturally,” he clarifies, which doesn’t help Dean to understand at all.

“Naturally,” Dean echos.

“Um, our—our souls, well, that is to say, originally _your_ soul and my grace—it happened when I pulled you out of Hell. Do you remember the handprint?” Without hesitation, Castiel fits his hand to Dean’s shoulder, and just the ghost of the memory makes them both shiver. The raised handprint scar has been gone for years, but _some days—_ especially when Cas is nearby or feeling particularly emotional—Dean swears he can still feel it pulse. 

“It was more than a scar,” Castiel explains, somewhat sheepishly. “It was a _mark._ A claim, if you will. A visible representation of the thread of my grace that fused and was bound to your soul when I rebuilt your body from scratch. That whole event was somewhat unprecedented amongst the Host. Chuck was the only one who might have known what it would do, as far as joining us together—”

“Okay, but Cas—what does this even mean?” Dean’s starting to get concerned and frustrated again. This is the other shoe, he’s sure of it. Things were looking too damn good, with _two_ Winchesters on the verge of happy endings, and now…

But Castiel just shrugs. “Not very much, in practice,” he admits. “In effect, it makes us soulmates, so we would share a Heaven. Although, if that isn’t something you want, I’m sure Jack—”

“That’s it?” Dean interrupts, not quite ready to embrace the wave of relief that’s trying to flood his system. “You were making it seem like—”

“Well,” Castiel says again, and Dean sighs, flopping back onto the bed in resignation. “It’s not a negative thing,” he rushes to add. “It’s simply a much deeper connection than any paperwork or ceremony could forge. I wasn’t sure if you would _like_ that, especially since it was created without your consent.” 

From underneath his arm, Dean peeks out and tips his head from side to side, contemplating. _Yeah,_ he gets what Cas is driving at. If this news had been dumped in his lap a year or ten ago, it’s pretty unlikely he would have taken it all in stride. Crossing desolate Siberian planes to track down a witch doctor who could un-bond them seems more the route _that_ Dean would have gone, but hey, nobody’s perfect. 

He isn’t that Dean, though. Not anymore. If this is a test, Dean’s about to ace it. 

“You didn’t do it to us on purpose, so there’s nothin’ to be mad about. Kay? Chuck—that dude fucked with all of us on repeat. This sounds like—he was probably just writing his story, or whatever he was on about. Anyway, I consent now,” Dean says gruffly. “If nothin’ else, it’s economical as fuck. Guess we don’t gotta worry ‘bout saving up for some fancy reception,” he teases, tucking the arm he had draped dramatically over his face behind his head. To show him he’s really serious, Dean flashes Cas his most charming, megawatt smile. 

Castiel remains unconvinced, his fingertips on Dean’s chest light and unsure. “You’re truly at peace with this?” he asks, head tilted to the side in question. Dean can barely focus on the semantics anymore—now that he knows nothing dire is happening, the fact that Cas is half-naked in his lap (and that he just said _yes_ to being Dean’s forever, soul-bond notwithstanding) is really the only thing he cares to dwell on. 

“I really fuckin’ love you, and I really want to be married to you, and I don’t give a flying fuck what that looks like,” Dean says. “Signatures on paper, classic church wedding, some witchy lesbian waving a stick over our heads on a beach somewhere while a drag queen sings _Evergreen,_ or this soul-bond business. I _don’t care,_ Cas, I just want _you._ Clear enough?” 

This time when Cas kisses Dean, he goes all in and makes it known that he has no intention of coming up for air anytime soon. 

“I just want you, too.” 

***

When Cas talked about the Bunker being the first home Dean’s ever really had, he wasn’t wrong. Dean’s room, especially. From the day he and Sam found this place, Room Eleven has remained his safe haven, his own little slice of normalcy away from all of the bullshit, and everything supernatural. 

Something about having a human Cas _in_ that space has only ever added to its place in Dean’s heart. From waking up in the morning and finding Cas resting peacefully beside him, to seeing Cas’ slowly increasing stockpile of possessions make their home amongst his own. Dean’s real secret isn’t exactly a secret anymore— _this_ is what he’s always wanted, what he’s yearned for, long before he ever considered the possibility that he could keep it.

The space itself has always been nice, but it’s having someone to _share_ that carved-out slice of domesticity with that Dean’s lonely heart has craved, what it rejoices in today. 

In that context, touching Cas here and now is probably the closest to a genuine religious experience as Dean will ever get. Hell, he’s been to Heaven, and that dump’s got nothing on Cas’ naked, muscled body lying warm and real against his. 

When Castiel kisses him and talks about _want,_ Dean melts. He finds himself relaxing, letting go of that last thread of fear and worry that they haven’t _talked_ enough. Alright, if Dean’s being honest with himself, he’s talked the fuck out. He and Cas have shared more chick-flick moments in the last few days than combined over the long-ass decade prior. They’ve both earned this. 

Cas feels _good_ under his hands, too. The striations in his back and shoulders flex as Dean’s palms slide over them, and his mouth is hot where it drags its way across and down Dean’s jaw and neck. 

“Take this _off,_ ” Castiel growls, tugging at the lopsided hem of Dean’s ugly sweater. Cas’ words vibrate against the thin skin of Dean’s throat, since he barely bothers to pause in his impression of a Hoover to speak. 

Dean smirks, letting his hand skate down and under the band of Cas’ ( _his_ ) sweatpants to palm and squeeze his ass cheek. Cas nearly purrs in approval, and Dean has to take a moment to contemplate what he wants to do next, because Cas is pressing back against his hand with interest. 

“What, you don’t like seeing your work on me?” he stalls.

Abruptly, Cas pulls away from his neck with a _pop,_ sitting up only to glare down at Dean in irritation. As Dean watches in fascination, Cas’ fingers come up to wipe a droplet of saliva away from the corner of his mouth. His bottom lip drags tantalizingly against the pad of his thumb, pink tongue darting out to swipe at the tip. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes. 

“My _work,_ ” Castiel continues, fire threading through both his voice and his eyes, “is currently obscuring my favorite canvas. Take it _off._ ” 

“Yes, sir,” Dean declares happily, yanking his arms inside the sweater and shoving it over his head faster than he’s ever removed an article of clothing before. The awkward collar catches just below his ear, but Dean persists, despite knowing that he’s coming out the other side with his hair fucked all to hell _._

 _Who cares?_ Definitely not Dean. After tossing the yarn abomination aside, he blinks expectantly up at Castiel. “Now what?” 

“Now, I’ll handle the rest,” Castiel replies with a devious grin, ducking his head and scraping his teeth down Dean’s lower abdomen, making him jump. Underneath Cas, Dean’s leg jerks and his hands fist into the sheets as those teeth find purchase on the elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs and start pulling.

“Cas,” Dean whines, but Cas doesn’t answer, just uses his mouth to rid Dean of his last article of clothing. That’s some talent—he only resorts to using his hands when Dean gets grumpy and impatient and nearly knees him in the nose trying to wriggle free. 

“You’re too far away,” Dean complains when Castiel surfaces triumphantly, underwear hanging like a prize from his mouth. 

“Insufferable,” Castiel says as he drops the shorts over the edge of the bed before crawling back up between Dean’s legs. He pauses to hover mere inches above him, smiling. His eyes are soft and shining, and they search Dean’s face before Cas leans down for a kiss, sweeping his tongue through Dean’s open mouth before drawing back just as quickly. “That’s what you are.” 

Shrugging, Dean spreads his legs, wrapping them around Cas’ still-clothed hips and dragging their bodies together. He bites his lip, winks at Castiel, and thrusts up into his groin. Cas is halfway to hard already and Dean is right there with him, the outline in Cas’ pants plumping up further as Dean’s hips give them both some much-desired friction. 

Times like these, Dean can’t help but think about how Cas is never less like the angel he’s known for so many years than when he’s like this; flushed, aroused, relishing and chasing his own pleasure. He stares, humming a satisfied little noise as Cas’ eyes fall shut and he groans. His pretty mouth falls open, turning him into a ridiculously enticing and erotic picture that Dean would _love_ to have a still of tucked away in his phone album someday. 

“That’s it, sunshine,” he murmurs, pulling Cas’ hips down hard against his pelvis while he relaxes against the mattress. Dean’s all for the dry-humping, but his abs ain’t what they used to be and that mid-air mambo move is fuckin’ _strenuous._

It’s no surprise when Cas goes easily, and the new position lets him return the favor, grinding slowly and sinuously against Dean’s length, propped up by an elbow next to Dean’s head. His pants are soft enough that there’s nothing wrong there, but it would be _better—_ in Dean’s opinion—if they were gone like the wind. 

Still, Cas is pretty lost to what he’s doing, and there’s plenty within Dean’s reach to entertain himself in the meantime. Dean slides hands all over Cas’ torso, plants wet kisses across his sharp collarbones and down the dip in the middle of his chest. He dips his nose affectionately against the smooth stretch of his firm pec, lets his teeth graze gently over a nipple. 

Cas likes that—his free hand finds the back of Dean’s head, fingers twining into his hair as he encourages Dean on. “More,” he demands, all whiskey and gravel, and Dean complies with a grin against his warm skin. 

“More is on the menu. Get inside me,” he murmurs, before mimicking Cas’ earlier enthusiasm and marking the hell out of his chest. Sloppy kisses and sucking bites turn tan skin into purpling-red, turn Cas himself into delicious putty in Dean’s arms.

Somehow, Cas’ pants get lost and someone finds the lube, Dean cracking it open with one hand while rolling Cas’ balls around with the other. He gets Cas’ fingers nice and wet (plus his own entire hand in the process—this shit is _messy)_ , guiding them down to where he wants them. 

It’s always a wonder how well Cas can anticipate what Dean wants, what he _likes,_ even when they’re both half-blissed out of their minds. Not that they've never had awkward moments in bed, or that learning each other’s bodies happened overnight, but Cas just—he _knows._ Today, even as Dean teases him relentlessly with his hands and his mouth, doing his best to make focusing as difficult as possible, Cas pushes two fingers inside his body without pretense. He _knows._

“Yesss,” Dean hisses, spreading his legs even wider and holding onto Castiel that much tighter. “Want you closer, Cas. Want you— _ungh._ ” 

Cas knows when not to baby him, when to push Dean, when to take when he needs and ride Dean’s body like an ocean-tossed boat in a hurricane. His eyes open, lids heavy and irises navy-lust-dark. They lock unflinchingly with Dean’s and suddenly, Dean’s the one drowning in the sea. 

As Castiel’s fingers move inside of him, their bodies roll and slide together, skin slick and hotter by the minute. When their mouths find each other again, Dean can’t even figure out who moved, not that he cares. 

And this is _good—_ it is. Looking at Cas’ face and watching him come while they fuck never gets old, but Dean wants him _deep,_ wants him _close._

It’s not long before he’s done with fingers and foreplay, gently nudging Cas’ arm until he withdraws and kissing him thoroughly through all of it. Cas wipes his hand on the towel Dean left on the nightstand while Dean sits up, chasing the bolt of Cas’ jaw and his earlobe with a greedy mouth. 

“Love you. Love you like... _pie,_ ” Dean proclaims proudly, smiling widely at his own declaration as Castiel snorts.

“The feeling is mutual,” Cas assures him, a soft hand tracing down Dean’s spine as he nuzzles their noses together and smiles back. “Well?” 

Dean wiggles his eyebrows and scoots back, just far enough to turn around and get onto all fours without kicking Cas in the face. Cas gets the hint immediately, following him down and covering his spine from top to bottom with hungry swipes of his tongue and wet, tender kisses. Thing is, Castiel’s usually the wordy one out of the two of them, but this is a move straight out of Dean’s playbook—letting his body do the talking. Dean appreciates it, and he’ll tell him so later. 

For now, he just closes his eyes and savors the moment. 

“Cas,” he murmurs. “Cas, I want you close, baby. Want you to—to hold me.” He buries his face into the pillow even as he’s saying it. They’re so long and far past shame and embarrassment here, Dean knows full well that he’s being ridiculous. And yet, he can’t stop the way his blood rushes to his face, turning it hot and red. 

_Old habits die hard._

But Cas is some kind of perfect motherfucker Dean knows for _sure_ he doesn’t deserve, and so he doesn’t do anything but slick up his cock and press the fat head of it to Dean’s hole, just the way Dean is hoping for. He pushes the top half of Dean’s body down with a firm hand between his shoulder blades, pulling Dean’s ass cheeks apart as soon as he’s down. That way, once the head of his cock pops past Dean’s rim, he can _slide_ inside by the slow and torturous tug of gravity and nothing else. 

It makes Dean shake, makes him tremble and bite down on his own wrist where he’s lying on it, trying his best not to scream or beg or something worse (like cry— _too late_ ). “ _Cas,_ ” Dean sobs, any other coherent thought having fled his mind completely. “ _CasCasCasCas.”_

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice says, sounding equally wrecked and desperate as his balls settle flush with Dean’s, which feels _fucking awesome._ Breathing hard and trying his best to suppress the urge to shove Cas backward and ride him like a pony, Dean clenches his teeth and waits for Cas’ body to lean down and blanket his back. 

That doesn’t happen. 

Instead, Cas’ strong arms come wrapping around his middle, yanking Dean upright so that his shoulder blades are flush against Cas’ chest. The move drives Cas deeper, tighter, as far inside as he can go. It’s so much exactly what Dean wants that all he can do is moan— _loudly—_ and tip his head back to rest onto Castiel’s shoulder.

“Is this—” Cas groans as he cuts himself off, pressing his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and kissing the damp skin there. His knees push Dean’s apart while his hips rock and swivel, arms crossed possessively around Dean’s chest. He leaves sloppy brushes of lips all the way down Dean’s neck and shoulder, the ghost of his teeth biting barely-sharp into the meat of it; there and gone. 

As his hands find Dean’s hips, helping him out with leverage and the ability to thrust somewhat more effectively in and out of him, Cas’ rhythm hits its stride. He takes the opportunity to lift a palm to Dean’s face, which Dean licks without having to be told. Wrapping wet fingers of one hand around Dean’s length, he strokes, and Dean goes boneless in his arms.

“Fuck, Cas, so good,” he slurs, not entirely sure the words he means to say actually make it out of his mouth, but again: _who cares._

“Is this what you wanted, beloved?” The arm still bracing Dean’s body slides across his abdomen to rest on the opposite hip, Cas’ fingers leaving fiery trails in their wake. _Touch me more,_ Dean wants to scream. _Touch me all over._ “Am I close enough now?” 

“Never,” Dean manages to say, reaching up to wrap an arm around Cas’ head, using the other to grab Cas’ ass. _Fuck,_ Dean thinks, eyes rolling back in his head as he rocks his body down onto Cas’ cock with enthusiasm. 

Cas’ breathing is rough in his ear and Dean is sure that the only thing missing from all of this is that he wishes they were kissing. Using the arm coiled around Cas’ dark mess of hair, Dean whines and tugs until Cas tilts his face just enough to bring their mouths together. It’s hot and it’s messy, and merely having Cas’ tongue sliding against his own makes tight heat coil in the depths of Dean’s belly. 

“Faster,” Dean gasps, right into Cas’ hot mouth as his hips meet Cas’ thrusts, alternating fucking himself down into Cas’ lap and up into his fist. The spit is gone and Cas’ palm is just a _little_ too dry, but Dean is _close_ and the friction feels way too good to stop, so he doesn’t. 

Like he can read Dean’s mind, Cas’ right hand leaves his hip and finds its favorite place on his bicep, right over where the handprint should be. The _soul-bond,_ or whatever. Dean’s whole body tingles faintly when the real thing slots into place like a puzzle piece. He’s flying, _floating,_ arching his back and whining as Cas’ left hand speeds up and squeezes _just_ right over the crown, making him cry out and press back into Cas’ body, coming hard enough to see fuzzy stars across his vision.

In his periphery, Cas licks his hand, and Dean nearly passes out all over again.

Coming down and going unconscious has to wait, though, because as soon as Dean’s orgasm has petered out, Cas is shoving him forward, back down onto his hands and knees. Once there, he grabs Dean by both shoulders and fucks him hard and fast, hitting that slide and depth he hasn’t been able to with Dean in his lap. It makes Dean’s eyes water and his body buzz and flash with pleasure in the best sort of way.

Dean never, ever wants it to stop. 

He doesn’t make any attempt to suppress the tears that fill his eyes from all the overstimulation; embracing the way they flood down his cheeks, soaking the bedsheets and causing him to sniffle. 

It’s not long before Cas’ hips stutter and a rush of warmth fills Dean’s insides, his dick giving a valiant (pointless) twitch at the feeling. He’s exhausted, but he’s more desperate to get Cas back into his arms than to rest. He gives the man about zero-point-two seconds after he’s pulled out to grab a wet wipe and do his thing. Before he can finish, Dean’s turning over and tackling him down, wrapping himself around Cas’ body and burrowing into his neck.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says in surprise, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Dean’s head once he’s settled. Dean just grunts. It’s silent for a long moment as they hold each other, Cas’ fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns over the bare skin of Dean’s back. Dean knows him, though, can just sense from his demeanor that Cas has something he wants to say.

“Spit it out,” he demands eventually, when the suspense gets to be too much. 

“It’s nothing,” Castiel insists, not very convincingly. “It’s just...that felt different.” 

Dean lets the silence hang for a moment, and then, “Yeah.” 

“Not in a bad way.” 

“Nope.” 

“It felt like...a new beginning. Life-affirming, perhaps.” Dean grunts again and Castiel sighs in exasperation. “Some things never change,” he adds, but his tone is affectionate. 

Dean lifts his head, despite how tired he is, and looks Castiel directly in the eyes. “Some things do,” he says simply, and then, as clearly and firmly as he can, “I love you.” 

The smile that breaks over Castiel’s face is wide and impossible not to mirror back at him. “Bastard,” Dean murmurs, touching his finger to Cas’ nose. He settles down again, back into the crook of Cas’ neck. 

“So,” he continues, glancing around his room and feeling like Cas was actually right—that _did_ feel different, _he_ feels different, now. He feels ready. 

Tomorrow, Dean will call Claire, ask her to bring her crew to the Bunker so that they can offer it up. Tomorrow, he and Cas will head into town. They’ll check out places that have “Hiring” and “For Rent” signs in their windows, they’ll have a drink at the bar. Tomorrow, Dean will look into getting Castiel _real_ papers to give him a _real_ identity, one that can be used to file a marriage license at a courthouse. He’ll google the laws about pet pigs and probably trail exasperatedly behind Castiel at Petco as he picks out a collar and an assload of toys.

Tomorrow. It’ll come. Dean finally gets that, is finally _okay_ with the fact that it will, that the world is going to continue turning, whether Dean embraces that or not.

This time, he’s done looking back. He’s ready for whatever _his_ future holds.

After all, Cas was worth the wait. Dean likes to think that he was, too. 

For once in his life, Dean’s right on time.

“Your move, sunshine. What do you want to do next?”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little epilogue!! Don't forget to click next-->>> :-D


	7. Epilogue: Two Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed more fluff, lol

_Epilogue: Two Years Later_

Dean’s drive up the dusty country road feels longer than usual tonight. He’s late getting home, but he had a therapy appointment after his shift at the garage, and they ran over his scheduled time. Dean supposes he should just count his blessings that he found a psychologist who gets him—who doesn’t cut him off once he actually manages to open up. He’s got a long way to go, but these sessions _are_ helping, much to Dean’s chagrin. He’d half-hoped he could do a meeting or two just to appease Cas and then declare himself cured, but if he’s being _honest—_ what he’s wound up with (over a year later) is well-worth the embarrassment of using his words. 

It’s cool out tonight, one of those evenings in late September that really signals a change in the seasons. Dean drives with the windows down anyway, enjoying the crisp breeze in his face despite the way it reminds him of what he and Cas went through almost two years ago to the day. Baby’s radio is lower than he usually keeps it, quietly crooning some Creedence Clearwater Revival as the gravel road leading to their little house peters out even further.

Dean likes that. It reminds him of the frontage road leading to the Bunker, makes him feel like he moved _up_ and not away. 

Not that they went far. He and Cas are shacked up just outside Smith Center, Kansas these days. It’s a little further away from Lebanon than Dean initially thought he’d go, but there’s more action and opportunity, jobs and social interaction-wise out here. 

It took over a year to scrape together a down payment for their house, which, Dean can’t complain. Staying in the Bunker and not having to put money towards rent and utilities while working a full _and_ part time job let them set aside money hand-over-fist compared to regular people. Not to mention, that extra time softened the blow of leaving the Bunker behind forever. Hell, by the time he and Cas (with his newly and only semi-illegally-(read: Jack)procured documents proclaiming him a real person and U.S. citizen) went to settlement, Dean was goddamn ready to leave.

And if that had something to do with all the _barely_ out-of-their-teens female hunters suddenly _everywhere_ in the Bunker, Dean didn’t need to admit that to anyone but himself. Much as he respects and appreciates Claire and her fuckin’ _squad_ for happily taking the hunting torch from him, she’s a hot mess of a housekeeper. If Dean found one more thong left haphazardly on the floor of their shared bathroom, he was definitely going to lose it. 

Bottom line, between Claire’s crew and Krissy’s, even though they’re all on the road more often than not, someone was _always_ around. And if they weren’t around, they were coming and going and reminding Dean that he was standing still. Not that Dean wanted to go back on his promise to Cas, but he didn’t need his past shoved into his face and smeared around, either.

So when Cas found this house and dragged Dean to see it, honestly, he was long past jumping out of his skin to get the hell out of there. Cas could have brought him to see a utility-equipped version of that cave they holed up in and Dean would have asked for a pen to sign on the dotted line. 

_This_ was the exact opposite of a hole in the ground, though. The house Cas found was something Dean never—not in his wildest dreams—thought could be _his._ When he imagined “white picket fence,” the best his disillusioned mind could supply was a shitty one-bedroom above the laundromat, and Dean was _good_ with his mediocre fantasy home, so long as Cas was sharing it with him. 

But Cas had bigger dreams than that, and Dean should have known not to underestimate him. 

Thirty days from their first visit, they were homeowners. 

Now, Dean comes home every night to a picture-perfect little white farmhouse, complete with wraparound front porch, dormer windows with green shutters, and manicured flower beds. He mows and edges their _lawn_ on the weekends, buys fuckin’ weedkiller and waters plants on a set rotation. They even have a couple of cows and a friggin’ coup full of chickens (yes, Dean constructed that hen house himself, thank you very much, and only nearly lost a finger twice). 

Cas has fuckin _beehives_ at the corner of their property and multiple gardens that stretch wide across their backyard. He’s even got his own stand at the Farmer’s Market on the weekends, making a killing selling his produce and honey, his eggs and his “artisan-crafted dairy products,” whatever the fuck that means. 

Secretly, Dean can’t imagine paying ten dollars for a hunk of butter, but slap a cutesy little sticker with Fatback’s image on the front of the package and apparently, that’s the going rate. Probably the fact that the pig himself comes to the market and sits placidly at Cas’ side—wearing various bandanas, hats, and most recently, a little tiny tie—helps, but Dean still thinks the yuppies that shell out that kind of cash are dumb as hell. 

It’s definitely some of the best butter and cheese he’s ever tasted, though, to be fair.

The road ends where their driveway begins. He and Cas actually live just beyond the small suburban neighborhoods that peter out at the far edges of Smith Center. Their closest neighbor is a half-mile (give or take) in either direction, and Dean likes it that way. He’s already holding down a day job at the garage and a nighttime gig at the bar down the street, _and_ pouring his heart out in therapy—fuck, there’s only so much _socializing_ a recovering emotionally constipated asshole can take. 

Which is why Dean’s kind of surprised that he’s looking forward to tonight. That he’s anxious to get home and join in on the revelry that’s inevitably started in his absence. It’s not overly common (but it’s not rare, either) for him and Cas to have friends over—it _is_ unusual for those friends to be the entire occupancy of the Bunker, Jody and Donna who are visiting the girls, _and_ _Sam,_ Eileen, and the best goddamn nephew in the world. 

A smile breaks across Dean’s face as he pulls the car to a stop behind Cas’ stupid Prius, tires crunching on the gravel. Normally, he’d pull Baby straight into the attached garage, but Cas said something about setting up beer pong and a poker table in there tonight. When he turns off the car’s headlights, it’s darker than Dean realized, the sun having gone down almost fully behind the treeline at the far end of their property. 

He grabs the two cases of beer he picked up earlier from the backseat, huffing an “Oof,” when they’re heavier than he expected on his aging joints. It’s a four-advil kind of night tonight, but Dean’s okay with that, because then he can hitch his hip up the way he likes while Cas—

“Oink!” Fatback declares excitedly, wagging his tail from the other side of the screen door leading in from the porch. The heavy storm door is thrown wide behind him, and from somewhere in the depths of the warmly-lit house, Dean can hear the murmur of voices and the inviting hum of laughter. 

That’s his _family_ in there, that’s his happily ever after.

Groaning, Dean drops the beer onto the porch and stands up to stretch, his back and knees cracking dangerously. Adjusting the silver band on his left ring finger from where the cardboard case was driving it into the soft flesh of his palm, Dean traipses across the porch, tired but thrilled.

“Oink,” Fatback complains, wet nose pressed flush to the screen, irritated that Dean is outside and he is in. When he opens the door, Fatback oinks a third time before bumping his leg in greeting and taking off, bolting across the lawn and terrifying one of the chickens. It squawks indignantly and flaps a few feet into the air with a flurry of feathers. With his hand still on the door handle, Dean chuckles and shakes his head. 

He looks out over the slowly-darkening scene, Fatback’s shadowy form now disappearing amongst the pepper plants Cas planted earlier in the summer. Cas is gonna be _pissed_ if he eats the last harvestable crop of the year, but Dean isn’t about to rain on the porky fucker’s parade. He gives Fatback a little salute and then heads inside, bound to track down someone younger and less arthritic to haul the beer the rest of the way to whatever tubs of ice Cas has prepped to chill it.

The screen door creaks when Dean opens it fully, and he makes a mental note to put some WD-40 on the hinges tomorrow. Thankfully, it’s his day off. He and Cas’ll probably sleep in, then take Sammy, Eileen, and the kiddo for brunch in town. _Yeah, that’ll be sweet._ Come back and work on the Impala for a bit, maybe teach Jr. to assist with changing the oil—kid loves to help. 

“Cas?” Dean calls out, heading towards the kitchen and the concentrated hub of activity. Before he can get there, Cas appears in the hallway, looking so happy that he’s almost glowing. 

“Jack is here, huh?” Dean asks, and Cas just grins wider. “I’ll take that smile as a yes.” 

Especially considering that they have company, Castiel looks ridiculous. He’s wearing an old pair of Dean’s ripped jeans, one of his disastrous sweaters that has to be rolled six times on the left just to make his hand visible, and a frilly _apron_ that’s covered in—something, Dean isn’t going to ask. It says, “Kiss the Cook,” in big block letters and Dean’s had to resist ironing on the image of a rooster ever since it appeared in their kitchen. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Dean jokes, something he says nearly every time he walks in and sees Cas wearing that thing. Cas takes his hand as they step into each other’s space with the ease of two people who have been doing that very thing for decades. 

Kissing Cas is still as sweet and easy as it’s always been, still holds the tingling, exciting promise of _more_ every damn time.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Castiel says easily when they separate, lingering with one hand twisted in Dean’s fingers and the other resting on Dean’s hip. His cheeks are flushed with more than just the lingering effects of a kiss—Dean’s going to guess, two glasses of Merlot in the last hour. Cas thinks that if he’s also using the wine to cook, it doesn’t count and he can’t get drunk. “It hasn’t been the same here without you,” he adds, as if he didn’t see Dean ten hours ago, didn’t wake up with him pressed determinedly against his back.

The murmur of their guests from somewhere behind Cas escalates. Laughter and a roar of good-natured protest spill out from the kitchen doorway into the yellow-lit hall, and Cas glances over his shoulder. “I think we’ve been missed.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, allowing Cas to pull him along in the direction of their gathered family and everything else that’s still to come. He can hear the sound of the screen door banging shut again behind him as Fatback pushes it open and shoves his way back inside, apparently done destroying Cas’ prized produce for the evening. “It’s good to be home.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading and for coming on this ride. I know canon fics are a tough sell right now, and I really appreciate the shot at making things "right" for our boys and the trust that the tough times would pay off. I hope you all enjoyed. Please stay tuned on social media for more artwork from the incredible @LadyRandomBox, without whom this story would not exist. Lindsay, you are a wonderful, understanding, and gracious human and I am so glad I get to call you my friend. <3


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